


Black Glass

by floralstiel



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fantasy, F/M, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-27
Updated: 2012-12-27
Packaged: 2017-11-22 14:37:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 3
Words: 60,598
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/610903
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/floralstiel/pseuds/floralstiel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Winchesters live in the middle lands, away from the politics and blood shed of the north, but one day John Winchester discovers a dead body and a nearly-dead, winged child in the woods. Dean names him Cas, and they quickly discover that he is mute. Through certain events they learn that not all is as it seems when soldiers from the Empire raid their homeland, searching for mute men with wings. Cas and Dean, now grown, flee their home and attempt to escape the Empire’s clutches. Dean is captured and held by the pseudo emperor, Michael, and Cas journeys to strange and otherworldly places halfway across the world to gain power to save Dean, all the while battling others with selfish ambitions of their own.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Awakening

**Author's Note:**

> Part 1 of this year's DCBB~ Reposting here from my LJ...

**Part I: Awakening**  
  


_Obsidian glass slippers, adorned with silver lining, beset with pale diamonds the color of an overcast sky. Diamonds that color were the precious stones of the Holy Empire, and few outside the walls of the Basilica could boast laying eyes on them_ _._ _Yet these gems were not housed in dusty glass cases or around the neck of a royal, they were set behind dark lashes, pale against alabaster skin._ _They were the trinkets from a childhood best left forgotten, locked behind a door that led to a black room in memory that whispers even now of damp basements and places in the woods that are remembered, but vaguely, like wisps of smoke that, if reached for, slip through the fingers like water. As is memory, a stream of consciousness that cannot be grasped._

-o-

He held them in his hands, the slippers; they wouldn’t do him much good out here in the wild. Gabriel could see how the boy shivered, how his wingtips trailed through the dirtied snow, how his every step was labored due to his heavy robes. The expensive white layers and blue, metallic lining told any traveler who, exactly, he was, let alone the downy appendages that now hung low, soaked through, to the ground; Gabriel would have to fix that. He would have disappeared into the whiteout of the landscape if not for the black of the trees spotting the air, reaching into the sky like hands clawing their way to heaven.

They were soaked through, and the damp cold air was sending the boy into shivering fits that would rattle him to his bones. The slippers clinked together when the boy shuddered, and he stared down at them, at his blue fingers that were quite possibly frozen to the dark glass.

“Come,” Gabriel beckoned him forward, fighting off his own fatigue and the cold that set deep into his bones, praying to God and all his angels the boy would trust him. The boy toddled forward, tripping over the hems of his robes and he started sniffing, brows scrunching together. Gabriel cooed and stepped forward, scooping the child into his arms when he began to cry.

“Castiel, be calm. We’re safe now…”

He glanced around warily, eyes darting from tree to tree. He prayed he imagined that twig-snap that echoed through the forest like a gunshot. He began to trudge along, soothing his young charge and ignoring the spots of red that trailed along behind him, melting into the snow to stain the ground below.

For hours they walked through the black forest, ignoring the carnage strewn shore that lay behind them, ignorant to the cold in the air and the ache in their hearts. Gabriel looked down at the child, bundled in his own, dryer robe, fast asleep. He prayed that the boy put this day out of his mind forever, and would never remember what happened, how he came to lose everything and everyone he ever loved in the world.

He gritted his teeth and increased his pace. Ignoring the black entreating on the corners of his eyes, he had to make it to the border of the Empire; the boy would not be safe anywhere else, but where to take him beyond that? Gabriel had a place he could run to, he had contacts with the heathens in the south, but what of the boy? He couldn’t possibly bring him along, that was no place for a child of the Holy See, so just beyond the border, then, possibly with one of the cast-off families, or of the older nobility who grew weary of the Basilica’s politics and moved away. He only knew of two such families, the Winchesters and the Harvelles. Both produced fine ministers and in the Winchester’s case, a beautiful Saint. They would be the ones, the Winchesters; Castiel would go to them.

The child stirred in his arms, but did not make a sound, for that was the child’s curse. No sound could be uttered easily from his lips till the Holy Empire was cleansed and the Basilica was free from taint; so long as the child remained mute, evil remained in that putrid city of false profits. Gabriel wept when he learned the truth from the child’s parents. He was the unholy spawn, a bastard child from the Light himself and a dimwitted servant girl, but Gabriel prayed every night that the sins of his father would not become the child’s own. Gabriel learned of the girl’s pregnancy, brought her under his care, and gave her food and safety from the prying eyes of the ministers.

Now, no matter how impure, Castiel was the only heir to the Holy Imperial Crown, but he could never set foot in that Basilica so long as the ministers knew of his siring. So the seat of Holy power lay vacant as its last two surviving clan members ran away from the river, to the divide between nations.

 

To this day John never regretted moving from the Empire. Living in the woods by the lake was a simple existence, one he knew his wife and two sons appreciated. Sam and Dean were growing to be fine young boys, and if they still remained within the Empire and still pertained to its laws, Sam would be well on his way to becoming a Minister, and Dean would be…Dean would be stuck at home doing the chores and duties around the house until something happened, or until a sign came to their door that meant that the first born son was created for the Divine Plan. Just as a sign came to John’s door when he was still a boy, and how he had to leave home at the age of ten to train in the Basilica to become a Saint. 

John didn’t want that for his boys, though. He didn’t want Sam to be molded into an intelligent slave for the Holy powers, didn’t want his eldest to be sent off to die in the Holy War, as he almost had. No, living in the forest by the lake was just fine indeed.

He looked up from whittling on the porch when he heard a boyish scream and a horse’s answering whinny before he grabbed his sword and ran down the path to the forest.

“Sam! Dean!” John bellowed, sprinting through the thick underbrush, approaching the sounds of distress with the worst in mind. Oh god, the Empire had found them, they had found them and they were taking his boys away from him.

“ _Dad!_ ” He heard Sam shout from a clearing up ahead, and he hastened, tearing through the blackened dead branches and immediately came to a halt, panting and in utter shock.

A flaxen haired man lay face down in the muddied snow, skin pale and bluish in the cold, and a dark splotch of maroon painted the back of his pristine white robes, as well as two gashes in the fabric that revealed warped and torn bloodied flesh beneath.

“Daddy, what is it…?” Sam whimpered, hiding behind his older brother’s leg.

“S-stay back, Sam.” John murmured, keeping his hands on his blade and eyes on the man. He quickly glanced up at Dean and jerked his head back in the direction of the lake. Dean still had Impala’s reigns in his hand and he clicked his tongue slightly, urging the old girl forward.

“C’mon, Sammy, let’s go get the supper on, I’m starvin’.”

Sam nodded and clung to Dean’s arm, staring periodically behind till they were lost beyond the bend. John turned his attention back to the immobile figure in the mud, and he tapped it lightly with his boot, stepping back cautiously, but there was no sign of movement. He kicked him harder, prodding with his sword. The body fell off to the side, revealing a smaller, disheveled bundle in the man’s death-locked arms. It moved slightly, up and down, whatever it was it was breathing. John flicked open the bundle with the tip of his sword, not taking any chances. He gasped when the cloth fell away to reveal a tiny face, rosy with life though in this cold John knew the child wouldn’t have lasted much longer.

He lifted the child carefully, taking note of the robe he was wrapped in, seeing the white and the blue. This child was from the Basilica; and worse than that, quite possibly from the Holy Family itself. What was it doing this far north? He only wished the child’s caretaker was still living, so that he might ask their purpose here. The child began to stir, but didn’t utter a sound. Perhaps it was the cold.

At a loss for what to do, but knowing he had to get the child inside where it was warm, he left the body behind. He would return as soon as possible to give the poor soul a proper burial, it was the least he could do. The child began to fidget and stared up at John with the brightest blue eyes he ever did see. They were the color of the royal jewels, things few could boast to have seen, yet here they were, shining in this child’s eyes. He had a head of black hair, disheveled and unclean, and his fingers were bluish, but he seemed to be moving them just fine. There was something strange about the child, something John couldn’t put his finger on. He looked old enough to be able to speak, at least make noise, but no such sound was uttered from his lips. He was also incredibly heavy; John had to shift his hold several times. The child seemed to wince in pain every time John pressed him closer to his chest, squishing his back, but John didn’t want to stop and see why, night was falling, and the child had been in the cold long enough.

Mary would know what to do.

 

Sam and Dean crowded around their father when he opened the heavy cabin door, stamping his feet to be rid of the cold and snow after slamming it shut.

“Dad! Dad! What is it?” Sam clamored after his father, watching intently when John immediately brought the white bundle into the den, in front of the blazing hearth. Dean also came close, but gave John his space when he set the bundle on the ground, and gasped when he unrolled the powder-white linen.

“It’s a kid,” Sam said, looking almost disappointed and Dean snorted, shoving him out of the way and kneeling next to his father.

“He’s got something in his hands Dean, see if you can pry ‘em open.”

Dean moved to coax the child’s hands open, but they would not budge. Dean glanced at the child’s face and he looked confused, huffing gently when Dean tried again.

“He won’t let me, dad.” Dean sighed, sitting back on his knees and watched intently as John pulled away the numerous layers of white and blue fabric.

“That’s fine,” John murmured, rubbing the child’s cheeks, pulling back when they blushed a rosy hue, healthy if not a little swollen, “we’ll see what momma can do when she comes back.”

Both boys nodded, but didn’t move from their father’s side when he finally unwrapped the outer layer. When thin little wings fell from the folds, falling unresponsively onto the floor John’s suspicions were confirmed. They twitched valiantly at the new freedom, and the child keened, wriggling a little in his pile of fabric, attempting to reposition himself for more comfort. Who knew how long he had been trapped underneath that poor man in the snow, how his wings must have half-froze in that position. John had only cared for one other person with wings, and only knew so much about their anatomy, but he set to work straightening out the skewed feathers, taking care not to let one twitch into the open fireplace. When he finished straightening out as many as he could he coaxed the child to fold his wings in slightly, laying them out on the carpeted floor.

He sat back and ran a hand over his stubbled face, he still had to go get the man’s body, he couldn’t let it sit out in the cold through the night, the man might have just been unconscious and unresponsive; John had just been too concerned over the child to notice.

“Dean, watch him, I’ll be back in a few minutes.”

 

When Mary Winchester returned from the town market, she was just as much at a loss as her husband, with less experience with winged children. But if there was one thing Mary was good at, it was being a mother.

“The poor thing hasn’t spoken a word?” Mary asked, kneeling down to smooth the child’s hair from his face, trailing the back of her hand down his cheeks, checking for fever. John shook his head, sitting with the child in his lap. The boy kept squirming, but didn’t seem too upset; then again he looked too young to care about where he was, let alone speak. But Mary’s suspicions were normal, a child this young should have cried out by now being held and handled in a room full of strangers.

Dean and Sam peeked their heads around the upholstered armchair, trying to get a look at the boy. Dean himself seemed fascinated in his own, quiet way, though Sam soon lost interest, trailing away to play with his toys by the fire.

“Here, Dean, hold him for a minute, I have to talk to your mother,” John said, placing the now disgruntled child in Dean’s arms, and he held him awkwardly, at a loss for what to do other than plop to the floor and wait. Dean was twelve years old, but was muscled from working on the land with his father, yet the boy was incredibly heavy in Dean’s arms. Not even Sam weighed so much when he was this little.

 _Must’ve been the wings_ , Dean thought.

Earlier they had pried open the child’s hands and revealed black glass slippers, and his father had taken one look at them and then put them away in the box on the mantle, telling Dean not to speak of them again. Dean thought it might have been because they hurt the boy, his hands were raw and cracked from being stuck to the glass and then painstakingly removed, he might even scar from it.

“I can’t keep calling you _boy_ ,” Dean whispered, bouncing the child up and down on his knee and the boy smiled in delight, clapping his hands. “I saw those black shoes before Dad took ‘em away, they had a name on ‘em, though I don’t read much. I did see a C-A-S though. Ring any bells?” The child huffed and batted at Dean’s hands when he reached to pluck at his wings playfully.

“I’ll call you Cas, how does that sound?”

 _Cas_ stopped fidgeting and stared up at Dean with those eyes of his, almost in a childlike awe.

“You like that?” Dean huffed a laugh, bouncing Cas on his knee again. Cas seemed happy with his new name, but again, no sound came from his mouth save for a sharp gasp when Dean lifted him up and held him high, twirling him around like he knew Sam liked when he was that young. Dean set him back down when he saw his father watching from the other room. He looked scornful, though Dean didn’t know why. It was always in his nature to play with children, to make them happy. Dad was absent for much of Sam’s infancy, and when momma was away in the town it was up to Dean to watch Sam and take care of him. Sam was older now, about six or seven, and well-adjusted to living on his own in the secluded cabin, and Dean missed playing with a child, especially his innocence.

Cas looked like he was maybe 3-4 years old, but he couldn’t be sure. Either way, that innocence would be gone soon, too, and Dean wanted to cling to it as long as he could.

 

“Mary, you can’t possibly be serious…”

“What else are we going to do with him? You can’t take a winged child into the town orphanage, they’ll kill him!”

“You’re over exaggerating…”

“Am I, John?”

John sighed, this was the last thing they needed, another mouth to feed in the dead of winter. Hunting had been unsuccessful as of late, and the lake had frozen over. They could only get supplies from in town and they had no money, and they were swiftly running out of things to barter. He glanced into the living room, frowning when he saw Dean playing with the boy, and he knew once Dean formed a connection he was difficult to tear away.

“Something’s just…something is off with that child…” John sighed, running a hand through his hair and turning back to his wife. “The man I told you about, the one in the forest? I went back to bury the body and it was _gone_ , Mary.”

She crossed her arms and looked down, her lips a thin line.

“Maybe…maybe the wolves got it,” she nodded her head, looking in at her son and the unfortunate child in his arms.

 

Cas crouched at the mountain crest overlooking his childhood home, breath fogging in his face. The snows had come earlier than expected, but he had persevered, he had traversed nearly the entirety of his family’s lands and farther in search of game. He shifted his braces of rodents and fowl over his shoulder and began the slow descent down to the frozen lake. The silent child had grown into a stoic young man, a prolific hunter who was more at home in the wilds of the woods than under the roof of the Winchester’s lakeside cabin. His silence frightened the older Winchesters, but Sam and Dean took him in as their own brother, and much of what Cas knew now was straight from Dean’s example, though through the intensity of how he threw himself into the wild, he surpassed even Dean.

The animals of the forest didn’t seem frightened of him, which of course gave him plenty leave to hunt, and food was plentiful in the Winchester house. Dean thought it might have been his wings, and he certainly had an air about him, his silence, his grace…even he couldn’t help but gravitate to the man. The intensity in his eyes spoke volumes more than any of the dusty tomes Sam buried himself in day after day. No knowledge held in Cas’s eyes could be found in those books. Nothing could. Everything Dean needed to understand was in his brother’s eyes.

Dean looked up from scaling a Bluegill when the hunter came through the open door for the first time in months, shaking off his furs and crossbow, kicking them off to the side as well as his moccasins. He held up a clutch of rabbits and squirrels, all scrawny but volume made up for their size. Dean smiled and nodded, beckoning him forward. Cas walked with a silence that other wildsmen would envy. Dean wondered if maybe his bones were thin and brittle like a bird’s, full of holes to make them lighter than any others, so he could fly with his wings. Dean wished he had wings, like Cas, so that they could fly together. Dean had seen him do it before. Short, gliding bursts, nothing more, but still…they were a sight to behold.

“Get anything else out there? Noticed you were missing more than a few arrows.” Dean asked, and Cas motioned to the door and made a swooping motion upward behind his ears. Dean raised his eyebrows.

“A deer?” Cas nodded. “That’s great Cas, we can cook up some venison for momma.” Cas smiled and placed the clutch on the table, moving back outside to most likely gut the deer. Dean frowned slightly, hoping Cas kept his wings out of the way of the blood, last time it took multiple washes for Dean to clean it all out, and Cas was always so finicky whenever anyone else besides Dean touched him.

First time Mary attempted to straighten his wings he lashed out violently, hissing in anger and drawing back behind Dean’s bowed legs. Dean had been shocked, sure, but he merely dug his thumb into Cas’s wing joint and the boy whimpered, lowering to the floor and glancing apologetically up at Dean. The act had felt right at the time, and he certainly hadn’t expected Cas to react like he did. It sent a rush of heat through his body, it felt like power. For once in his short life Dean held sway over another that he knew to be stronger than he. Dean shook his head and pointed at their mother and Cas keened, looking to Mary. She smiled at him, but she was shaking and she didn’t look all that convinced.

Dean jerked, almost nicking his thumb when Sam thundered down the stairs, books and bag in hand.

“And where’re you goin’? Cas just came back, you could stick around for once…”

Sam sighed lowly, stopping at the open door and wrinkling his nose at the dead animals on the table.

“Sam, he barely knows you…Please…”

“Well, he might recognize me if he stayed home more. He goes off on his hunts and he’s away for weeks at a time, this time he was gone for nearly three months!” Sam snorted.

“He puts food on our table, _and_ he is your brother. Respect that, at least.”

“He is not our brother! He never was, Dean! He came in this house and took over our lives! I had to put my dreams on hold to take care of him, then dad died and…”

Sam stopped when Cas came back in with wrapped packages of deer meat. He stopped and stared at Sam for a moment, narrowing his eyes and edging around him to place the paper-wrapped packages next to the rabbits and squirrels that would also need to be gutted.

“Thanks, Cas.” Dean muttered, eyes not leaving Sam’s. Cas huffed, his customary way of saying something along the lines of “you’re welcome.” He also didn’t look away from Sam, and Dean knew firsthand what being held in that gaze was like. Sam eventually looked away, coughing slightly and placing his bag on the floor.

“You stayin’ long, Cas?” Sam asked, and Dean smiled grimly, at least he was making an effort with him.

The younger man looked hesitant, eyes darting between Dean and the food laden table, as well as the pile of fish Dean had managed to catch earlier that day. His shoulders and tawny wings slumped and he nodded.

“Great.” Sam said, he didn’t look all that enthused, though neither did Cas.

 

Dean started seeing that Braeden woman. Braeden woman was called lady, but lady means woman, so woman she was, just as Cas and Dean and Sam were men. Cas didn’t particularly like her, the way she looked at his Dean. He had heard Sam talking to Dean earlier that day before they went into town, about how he had to start looking for a woman, how he was getting on in years and he had to start thinking about the future. What future? If it was a future without him he didn’t want Dean to take it. Besides, Dean had a long life in front of him, lying flat like a lover or a long stretch of still lake reflecting the lights of the north sky. Cas knew, he had seen it in his night walks in the stars.

Apparently this Braeden lady liked Dean a lot, that they were going to get married, and have a bunch of babies and be happy. Nowhere in that equation could Cas find a place for himself. Because there wasn’t one. Dean was going to leave him to be with a soft woman. Soft woman skin was not something Dean wanted. Again, Cas knew.

She had never even gone hunting, she bought her food with paper and coin and earned her living setting and cleaning tables for other people who bought _their_ food with paper and coin, who bought _everything_ with paper and coin. Dean had showed him this _money_ before, and Cas didn’t know what to do with it. It couldn’t be used to kill a rabbit, couldn’t be used to plant or sow crops or catch a fish. It was meaningless to him. Just as Sam thought hunting was meaningless. Cas should quit hunting for a month, allow the giant to eat away at their stores, and then see how he appreciates what Cas does.

Though Dean left for the town quite often to see the woman, he sometimes brought her back to the house, to see Mary. Cas always made sure he was away on those days, or somewhere else on their property, chopping wood, fishing on the far side of the lake, gutting animals behind the stalls, bathing in their blood in secret.

Dean expressed to him numerous times that Braeden wanted to meet him, that she wanted his blessing. Cas looked at Dean then, really looked at him, and he hoped he conveyed in that gaze what he could not say aloud. Cas sighed, though, and let his wings droop before perking them up, looking at Dean then back to his wings meaningfully.

“She doesn’t know about that yet, but, I don’t think she’ll mind. She cares about us too much to let something like that effect our relationship.”

Cas could detect a small amount of sarcasm when Dean said relationship, and it made him feel warm inside, if it meant that Dean didn’t like this woman as much as he let on. So Cas smiled and nodded, delighting in Dean’s answering grin.

“Thanks, Cas, I’m sure you’ll love her.”

He did not, in fact, love her, and he was sure the feeling was mutual after their botched meeting. Dean had planned on a gentle stroll through the woods, Cas’s woods, to the clearing they played in when they were boys. What Dean had not been expecting was the Braeden woman’s reaction upon seeing him. He could smell her fear, and hesitation—like an animal he could sense these things, he discovered early on when he first began hunting—but what heavily disgusted him was her arousal, her lust permeated the air and he almost gagged, desperate to be out of the cabin and into the free air. Her cloying smell was like overly ripe apples…or unnatural scents that Mary sprayed herself with from small glass bottles, and she had sprayed him with them before when she discovered he disliked them. Her malice grew petty more often than not.

Dean had groomed him that day, saying that he didn’t want to purposefully intimidate her, and Cas almost fought to keep his beard. Dean settled for trimming it instead, which Cas preferred to being clean shaven like Sam. He forced him into the bath, scrubbing off the weeks of accumulated dirt and grime that didn’t get washed away in the melting snow and the lake water. He even forced him into new clothes, but they were still the rugged aesthetic that pleased him. They were John’s clothes, and that made him a little happy, having something of his father’s to hold onto during the day. Dean even trimmed his hair, snipping away at his fringe till it was almost as short as Dean’s.

Then Dean groomed his wings.

He never liked it when anyone else touched his wings, it felt violent and cruel and unnecessarily harsh when they tugged and pulled at his feathers. But not when Dean touched him. Warm bolts of pleasure coursed through his extraneous appendages and he sighed, clicking his tongue in a happy rhythm, letting the older man know how good it made him feel. This must be what lovers felt like.

Dean laughed and ran his hands through his wings once more, a useless gesture, and heat pooled low in Cas’s belly, a heat he was very much familiar with, a heat that in the past would send him deep into the woods for months at a time. But he couldn’t do that now, and he couldn’t immediately take off when Dean was done with him, he was still half naked. He clicked and whirred, looking down and crossing his arms over his stomach in distress.

Dean hesitated and placed a warm, calloused hand on his shoulder. Cas leaned into the touch, closing his eyes and sighing. He felt Dean’s heartbeat, heard it reverberate through the room, and as he leaned back he felt the man’s groin against his wings, and he felt the heat there, and could smell the low, heady beginnings of lust fill his nostrils. His smile curled along his lips, and his whirring grew louder till he was practically purring, like the felines he often crossed in the wilderness. Dean didn’t know how much of an animal he was, he had _become_. And like all of the animals he knew, he wanted to _take_ , consequences damned, like the eagles in the high branches that hunted and killed and loved with ferocity unbeknownst to humankind.

He rutted back against the older man’s firmness, panting softly at the sheer heat his nest mate was emitting. He couldn’t have the woman take him away, she couldn’t, she couldn’t, she couldn’t, _he wouldn’t let her_. He rolled his back, satisfied when Dean groaned, when his grip tightened and his heartbeat increased. It was beating as fast as the wild boar’s when he hunted them, when he drew in close for the kill; it was beating as fast as the rabbit’s when Cas held it gently in the palm of his hand before snapping its neck and tearing at its flesh in a rabid hunger that _could not be sated_. He thirsted for Dean’s blood, hungered for his flesh, for his seed, sweat, entrails, for his _love_.

“Cas…” Dean groaned, and that blessed syllable was the man’s undoing. Cas flipped around on the stool, immediately burying his face in Dean’s groin where his musky scent was the strongest, and he inhaled till he could no more and he was giddy with it. He licked the exposed flesh of the man’s hip above the waist of his pants, clawed at them, unfamiliar with the metal zipper and button and Dean batted his hands away, unzipping them himself. Cas would have sang for joy if he could have, the man wasn’t wearing any undergarments and his erection jutted out of a bed of dark blonde curls. From experience Cas knew they were wiry and coarse and they felt good against his skin, like the twigs on the ends of branches that tore at his face. It had been too long.

“She’ll be coming in half an hour, Cas, we gotta make this quick.”

Again, Cas felt the familiar coil of arousal and rage mix in his gut and he attacked the man’s member, suckling and biting at it, reveling in Dean’s cries and expletives. He didn’t notice the door creak open, didn’t notice a pair of hazel eyes settle on their mating in an unfamiliar mix of emotion. When Cas did become aware, he didn’t react, didn’t make it known, and he knew Dean would have shoved him away if he knew. Sam. Sam was watching them mate.

Cas gasped before swallowing down his bond mate, selfish in wrenching the man’s orgasm from him, which he did in a short while, suckling like an infant at a teat, nibbling at the foreskin till Dean drew away, too over-sensitized to the point of pain. Cas swallowed the man’s seed down, cherishing the part of him he held now in his belly. He no longer saw Sam at the door. Dean gripped his hair possessively, leaning down to lick at his lips, tasting himself on his mate and Cas breathed in his scent, memorizing it, learning it all over again, filing it away in his head. He whined and pressed his cheek into Dean’s palm, looking up at his mate; he smoothed over Dean’s flanks, kneading his flesh and wishing he could never be torn away from him again.

Dean bit his lip and ran a thumb over Cas’s, “You know why I’m doing this…people are getting suspicious, _Sam_ is getting suspicious…”

 _Sam is beyond suspicion_ , Cas thought, remembering Sam’s shocked expression.

“I have to do this, at least for a few years. Maybe we’ll get married, have a few children, but they will mean nothing to me, Cas, nobody is like you. Even if all of that happens, I will still belong to you.”

Cas keened and lapped at Dean’s fingers, tasting the salt of his sweat and the faint oily taste of his own wings.

“And you will still belong to me.” Dean growled, tightening his grip. Cas saw that his eyes were blown wide in lust, and they glittered in the midsummer sun, like black glass.

They quickly pulled themselves together, and Dean opened a window in the bathroom to be rid of the scent of their sex, and he popped a candy in Cas’s mouth, warning him not to spit it out, though Cas wanted to hold onto his mate’s flavor for as long as possible.

And it was as he was finishing the candy, chewing petulantly, when Dean led the woman through the door. He sucked on the sappy resin, focusing on the syrupy flavor in his mouth rather than the unmistakable scent of the woman’s arousal. Thankfully Dean led her upstairs to see Mary before they left, and Cas stepped outside to wait. It was still midsummer, but the land always held a bitter chill, and he pulled on his buckskin jacket over John’s clothes. He was a little warmer, and knew he would heat up once they started moving. He was just pushing his wings through the slits in the back when Dean and the woman emerged from the cabin. Dean squinted at him through the glare and beckoned him over.

“Cas, this is Lisa Braeden. Lisa, this is Cas.”

She smiled and held out her dainty gloved hand, eyes not leaving his twitching wings.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Cas.” Lisa said, and Cas nodded curtly, but did not take her hand. He wasn’t stupid; he had seen Dean and John greet other men before in a similar manner. But that wasn’t how you greeted a woman. She faltered under his gaze and eventually let her hand drop, glancing awkwardly at Dean. Dean just glared at Cas and the younger man ducked his head coyly, though he knew Dean wouldn’t fall for it. He just hoped his mate explained his behavior to the woman and then he started walking to the path in the tree line, expecting them to follow.

He had to keep pace with them; he wasn’t used to walking as fast, as careless, as Lisa was. She was making so much noise, chattering away in Dean’s ear, hanging on his arm, and he winced when he heard a wild boar squeal away at her children somewhere east of the path. Damn. If the woman hadn’t scared her away he could have gone back later for some fresh pork for the dinner table. He treaded carefully over the snow, walking in Dean’s footprints, avoiding the woman’s, and generally keeping his head down.

“Does he ever talk?” Cas heard her ask quietly, and Dean knew he probably heard her, but he answered her anyway.

“No, not even when he was a child. He didn’t so much as utter a peep.”

She giggled, glancing back at him and he smiled, a customary expression for strangers, he thought. He heard twig snaps somewhere off to the left of the path and he focused in on it, though it was hard given how loud Lisa was talking.

“And what about his wings?” She asked, softer than before but, again, Cas could hear her plain as day. Dean smiled thinly, and Cas could tell he didn’t want to talk about it from the tightness in the age-lines around his eyes. They _never_ talked about it, not even John discussed it with him before he died. It was just something they never talked about, and it was never a problem since Cas had no desire to go to town with his brothers after all, and who were the deer and the boar going to tell?

“Uh, we don’t know,” Dean deflected, glancing back at Cas himself and Cas smirked, batting his wings playfully at him. Dean blushed and turned back around, though Cas caught the hint of a smile on his face.

They continued their walk in silence, which was much appreciated by Cas, he didn’t think he could take any more of that woman’s banter. The twigs kept snapping, and he kept getting distracted by them, even stopping to stare along the edge of the trail, through the black trees. The black trees were always bare, but their number could obscure anything they wanted if the thing was far enough away, like blades of grass hiding a viper strike.

“Cas.”

Dean was next to him, looking out at the woods. He held the hunting knife at his waist, gripping Cas’s shoulder and brushing his wing aside to draw close to his ear.

“What is it, can you tell?”

Cas could feel the woman’s fear buzzing at the back of his head, but focused on what lay beyond the tree line. He pulled his bow from around his shoulder—he almost hadn’t taken it, but was glad he did—and notched an arrow, pulling the bow taught, training his sight along the path edge, looking for any movement. He moved forward, slowly, each step placed deliberately in spaces known only to him, spaces that would make no sound save for the nearly imperceptible crunch of snow beneath his feet. He heard the patter of small feet, heard the rush of fur against the underbrush, but what he heard was no rabbit. Too big, he thought, straining his eyes to their limit, searching for the danger that lay ahead. A low growl was his only warning before a wolf stepped out into his vision, melting out of the black bone trees like a spectre.  

He froze instantly, relaxing his posture and crouching closer to the ground. He drew in his wings, flattening them to his back to make him seem smaller and was glad when he noticed Dean had moved back to the path, quite possibly to take the woman to the cabin.

No women in the woods tonight, only predators.

The wolf snarled, baring its fangs, and Cas slowly withdrew the arrow, wincing at every creak in the aged pine bow and string. He laid his weapon on the ground, moving to sit on his knees. He held his hands out in front of him, palms up, and slowly, ever so slowly, drew his wings around him, letting his scent catch the wind. He knew he smelled of water and ice, of blood and pine, of fire and smoke; he smelled of predation and he knew the wolf would recognize its kin. The wolf ceased its snarling, closing its mouth and licking its snout, snuffing at the wind. It dipped its nose to the ground, sniffing before treading closer, keeping wary yellow eyes on the winged man. Cas drew his wings further up, sheltering them from the harsh sun and the wolf looked at them curiously, then returned to smelling Cas’s outstretched palms. They were covered in wrappings and fingerless gloves, but the wolf licked at the exposed flesh of his fingertips, tasting him, learning him. Cas smiled when its rough tongue tickled him, but didn’t dare move.

It looked at something off to their left, before howling, a deep mournful sound that Cas found himself envying before it took off at a light trot through the woods. Cas remained kneeling on the ground for some time, watching the wolf disappear into the wilderness. He returned to the cabin when the sun was already receding behind the mountains with wet numb knees and numb heart not yet thawed by midsummer.

 

“Cas, are you alright?!” Dean shouted in alarm, jumping up from his place at the table when the younger man trudged through the door. He nodded and pointed two fingers up where his ears were and jammed a thumb at his chest, drawing a cross as he shut the door with his foot and shook off his bow and quiver.

“A wolf…So I wasn’t imagining…”

He nodded, glancing at the woman who was also sitting at the table. They were eating dinner, but Dean’s plate stood untouched, right next to Cas’s. Dean sighed and scratched the back of his neck.

“What did you do with it?” Mary whispered softly from the head of the table, glaring at him. Cas returned her gaze but did nothing by way of reply. He merely sat next to Dean and began to eat. Sam and Dean looked at each other, Lisa fiddled with her flatware, and Cas could feel the tension oozing in the air and he sighed, pushed back his chair violently and grabbed his plate and glass, stomping down the stairs to his den in the basement.

He still heard their voices even after the door slammed on its hinges, could hear Dean’s voice loudest of them all, protecting him, defending him, his mate. He whirred and fluffed up in momentary warmth. He ate with his fingers, and hastily slurped down his drink, but was shocked it was wine and spat it back into the glass, reaching for one of his water filled canteens instead. He washed away the flavor of sour grapes and venison and paused when he heard footsteps on the stairs. He flattened himself to the ground, drawing his wings about him and snuggling into the furs, expecting it to be Dean. He jerked up and made a soft sound of inquiry when it was Sam, not Dean, who stepped down into his den.

“Hey Cas.” Sam looked at Cas’s abandoned glass of wine and drank it down; Cas had to hold back a wicked grin.

“Did you kill it?”

Cas’s smile dropped and he shook his head no, shrinking back against his bed of furs when Sam frowned down at him. Cas would never properly show it, but he was extremely intimidated by his other brother, he dwarfed physically in comparison and in the primal state of his mind he knew he hardly stood a chance physically against the giant if Sam really intended to hurt him.

“ _Why not?!_ ” Sam hissed, towering over him and pushing Cas further back. He hissed, like a cornered animal and lashed out at Sam, knocking him back a few paces, but whimpered and flinched in on himself when Sam raised a fist as a threat. His nest mate had never hit him, it was always an empty threat, but again Sam’s size held little room for argument.  

“Does Dean need to start hunting with you again, Cas? Do you need another reminder about _why we kill wolves_?”

Cas bit his lip and looked down at his scarred, unbound hands. Dean also had scars now, scars that would never heal, just as their father would never wake up after he got _his_ scars. Mary still kept a pistol under her pillow, as did Sam.

“Do I need to drag you to the cemetery and shove your face down on our father’s grave so it can get through that thick skull of yours?!”

Cas growled, and this time Sam was the one to flinch. Cas stood in one quick, fluid movement, unbuttoned his shirt and shoved it off to the side, so Sam could see his own scars, rips and tears that never healed properly that left deep gauges and valleys, warped and pale against his tan flesh. Sam swallowed and looked away. Sam alone was the only one unmarred by that night attack. Cas also drew his wings forward and batted them against his nest mate’s shoulders, attempting to convey what he couldn’t say. He implored him with his eyes, with his face.

“You’re not an animal, Cas. Not like _them_ , at least.” Sam sighed, hesitantly running a hand over one of Cas’s tawny pinions in wonder, gripping the delicate wing joint like Dean always did when he wanted Cas to listen and stay still.

“Just promise me, Cas…” Sam’s grip tightened for a fleeting moment of pain before relaxing again, “Promise me you won’t let something like that happen again.” 

Cas mewled and butted his head playfully against Sam’s chest, smiling when he felt the giant chuckle, _all was forgiven_. He released his wing and smiled, taking Cas’s empty plate and glass and headed back to the stairs.

“You should come back up,” Sam said, pausing at the foot of the steps. “Mom’s gone to bed and Dean really needs your approval with Lisa.”

Cas’s eyes flashed at the mention of the woman’s name, but nodded all the same. He waited a few minutes, listening to the low rumble of conversation from his place beneath the floor boards. He used to sleep upstairs where it was warmer, curled up by the fireplace where all he needed were his wings for additional warmth. The day after John’s death, though, when he was still recovering from his injuries he was moved to the basement. Mary didn’t tell him why or when she did it, he just woke up in night in a cold damp place, alone.

He was only ten at the time, and he had whimpered and keened all night till his throat was sore, he was even able to wrench out a faint squeal of fear when a rat ran past his foot. He was used to fire and warmth and company. He was used to curling up at the foot of Dean’s chair, sleeping on his feet and covering his bare toes with his then downy little wings. But then he couldn’t see a thing, no light shone anywhere in his new damp prison and he nearly passed out from fear. Dean found him the next morning, curled up in a shivering ball across the room, blood oozing from his agitated wounds. It had been too dark to discern where anything was in the night, and Cas had been too scared to feel around.

Dean had lifted him in his arms, shushing his hoarse sounds and wrapped him in a blanket. He took him to his own room, depositing him on the warm bed that smelled like home and left him there. Cas could remember the shouts that rang through the house, could remember Sam coming into the room periodically to feed him and clean his bandages. He remembered drifting in and out, remembered a hand brushing through his hair and he remembered pain and sadness, he especially remembered the illness that ravaged his body after that night in the damp cellar, which at that point hadn’t exactly been outfitted to be a living space.

Cas learned after that day to not be scared of the dark.

He trudged back up the stairs after a few more minutes, satisfied that Mary had gone back to bed. The woman had turned sickly and bitter as of late, and had a tendency to blame everything on either Dean or Cas, but neither of the brothers minded all that much, not anymore.

“Welcome back, Cas.” Dean grinned from the table, removing his hand from where it had covered Lisa’s, Cas grinned at that.

“I wanted to thank you for the dinner, Cas, it was delicious,” Lisa commented, smiling. Cas’s smile dropped as he turned. He sat down by the fireplace to warm his hands and shrugged.

“Well, he was the one to kill the deer, but I was the one who cooked it,” Sam said from the sink as he washed Cas’s plate.

“Which of the two tasks do you think is harder, huh?” Dean laughed from the table, and Cas couldn’t help but smile and turn around when Sam chuckled. Dean caught his eye and leaned forward on the table, Cas could tell he was about to tell a story, he always looked like that when he was about to weave a wonderful tale. He found himself drawing closer till he crawled up on John’s old armchair, wings fanning the air softly behind him to maintain balance.

“Here we were, in the dead of spring with no money and no food to speak of, except for Cas’s old squirrel jerky stash, which, needless to say, was hardly satisfying.”

Lisa laughed, but Cas was too focused on Dean’s face to care that she was interrupting _his_ story.

“One day Cas just got it in his head that he hadn’t journeyed far enough into the woodlands to hunt any decent game. We couldn’t last off of just rabbits and squirrels forever, so he set out when winter had hardly thawed. He took only a few days’ worth of rations, but he was gone for nearly two months, trekking who _knows_ where.”

Cas blushed and looked away. Truth be told he had actually lost his way for about a week of his journey on the way back.

“Anyway, we hear talk of strange bird sightings up north and of hulking mystery men that stalked around in the night who howled like wolves. All a bunch of horse shit, of course, but still funny as hell to listen to.”

“I remember that,” Lisa laughed, looking back at Cas with a smile.

“Yeah, he gave us all a fright, thought he had gone native and left us for good. But the day before I wanted to rally a posse to go search for him the man turns up at the door like only an hour had passed and he only took a stroll around the lake.”

Dean laughed, and Cas could tell he was remembering the moment as he told it.

“He had, of course, dozens of squirrels and rabbits to replenish his stash, as well as a few wild boars he piled on a sled. And then, the biggest catch of ‘em all,” Dean grinned, gesturing to the grand set of antlers adorning the mantle above the fireplace.

“Apparently he spent weeks tracking that buck down, driving it closer to home till he finally took the shot about an hour out.”

Cas grinned and whirred in delight, puffing his feathers in embarrassment and pride, he remembered that victory as if it had been yesterday.

“He sounds like an excellent trapper.” Lisa said, and Cas made an abortive grunting noise, scowling.

“He doesn’t set traps, he _hunts_ , he doesn’t think setting traps is honorable.” Dean corrected, and Lisa frowned.

“That just sounds like an incredible waste of time and effort; traps are much easier I can assure you.” Lisa said, not noticing Cas’s silent fury at her every word. “Besides, they’re animals, honor has nothing to do with it.”

Cas snarled and bristled in anger, but Dean held up his hand slightly from the table and pleaded him with his eyes to stay put. Cas grumbled and whined throatily, but settled back on the ground.

“He doesn’t like it because he considers himself to be an animal, and he would rather kill or be killed in a proper duel of hunter and hunted than trapped like a rat to be slaughtered.” Sam said, stopping in the kitchen doorway, drying his hands with a ragged old towel, one Cas still remembered from their childhood.

Lisa’s back stiffened, and it was then Cas knew he had made the impression he desired. He was an animal, a beast that hunted and killed and slaughtered and he looked like them. He had the wings of an eagle and he sought to shoot his own kind out of the sky for foodstuffs. He was a cannibal, then, worse than the animal predator he had devised himself to be.

The woman finished her meal in silence, save for a few hushed conversations with her beau—how Cas hated the thought that she intended to mate with a man that was already _his_ —before gathering her things, quickly leaving without a backward glance. Cas preened by the fireplace, happy with this new revelation.

He wasn’t a hunter, he was a _monster_. 

 

Cas loved the smell of snow, especially when it has fallen the night before and a fresh layer of downy white covered the land. He loved the silence of snowfall, like his silence it was perfection to him. He especially loved it when Dean accompanied him on his winter excursions. Dean still maintained that going out alone in the dead of winter was dangerous, and he needed a partner to help him if he got into any trouble. But Dean wasn’t with him this winter. He was living with the woman, just for the winter, Dean promised, because she was _pregnant_ with his child. No matter how much Dean pleaded and begged him, and _oh_ , did he _beg_ , Cas hadn’t touched him since he heard the news.

Cas would hiss at Dean every time he drew near, even if it was to brush down his feathers or give him something. Cas could see the hurt in his eyes, but he couldn’t bring himself to care. A permanent scowl had fixed itself on Cas’s face, and Mary immediately took it as an insult to herself, calling him an “impertinent child”, though Cas was far from a child now. He was in his early thirties, and had fully grown into his body. Dean repeatedly tried to corner him before he took off on his winter hunt, imploring him to listen, to stay, but Cas would not, and for the first time in his life he felt truly frustrated with his lack of words. He longed to scream at Dean, to demand answers, to apologize profusely for whatever he had done, to ask what would make him more appealing than the woman, to threaten her life, to threaten his life but immediately take it back because he could not kill his mate, and Dean knew that, knew how much he meant to the hunter. But he could not say any of these things to Dean. He had been struck dumb, like the animals he associated himself with, as it was the price of such reckless abandon.

“Cas please, just listen to me! It’s dangerous out there, people have been reporting that sentries from the Empire are searching the woods for something, and they’re attacking people they come across, please Cas, just promise me you’ll stay closer to _home_.”

Cas glared at Dean, incredulous that the man would not accompany him yet he dared dictate where the hunt would take him. As if sensing his train of thought Dean uttered a steady stream of “no” under his breath and tried to grab Cas’s wing joint again, like he did when they were younger, when Dean was his mate and everything was perfect. Cas pushed his arm away, gripping the knife at his waist, daring Dean to move again. Dean stilled, holding up his hands, but did not relax his stance.

“I don’t want to lose you…” Dean pleaded.

Cas narrowed his eyes and shoved him hard in the shoulder, kneeing him in the crotch when he reeled to gain his balance. Dean fell to the ground with a sickening thud, crying out in pain as he did. Cas kicked his legs apart and ground his booted foot against his brother’s groin, snarling at him.

_You already lost me._

 

Sam was the one who tried to stop him last. He caught him before he planned on heading out, in the time before dawn when the air was thin and the sky was a light, ashen gray. He stood in front of the path with a lantern, glaring at him.

“Dean is pretty upset, you know. And I know what…what you guys had, and I’m sorry, I really am, but he’s your brother, first and foremost. Don’t you think you should listen to him? He said that Lisa and whatever children he had with her would be meaningless compared to you.”

Cas narrowed his eyes, familiar with the speech, though he could see the indifference for the woman now replaced with a calm affection that held little in comparison to their fiery love, but it was _something_ , something Dean said wouldn’t happen.

“I like Lisa, enough, but I don’t agree with what Dean’s doing to you. It’s not right, it’s not right for either of us.”

Cas actually felt his anger falter and he cocked his head in confusion, whirring gently, a sign for Sam to continue.

“Dean doesn’t realize how important you are to him, and how much we all rely on your happiness, Cas. I mean, let’s face it, when was the last time you went hunting since Dean told you Lisa was pregnant?”

Cas’s brow furrowed, thinking back. He _hadn’t_ , that was the answer, he hadn’t hunted at all since Dean told him of his betrayal. He whimpered and glanced up at Sam, trying to rub his wing against the giant’s shoulder. Sam let him, but Cas could feel him stiffen.

“It’s not just the food either. I…I relied on Dean keeping you in line. At least let me come with you.”

Cas snarled, not liking the idea of his only remaining nest mate possibly stepping into harm’s way.

“I know it’s a dumb idea, I mean, I haven’t gone hunting with you in over ten years but…”

Distantly Cas wondered about Mary, who would look after her in their absence? She had grown too frail and miserly to let anyone else into the cabin. Cas shook his head resolutely, pointing back to the darkened cabin.

“Cas, please, you don’t know what you’re heading into, just let me come along! If we run into any of the Empire’s soldiers at least I’ll be able to talk some sense into them, maybe…”

Sam was grappling for reasons to come, and Cas still thought it was a bad idea. So he shouldered his way past Sam, grunting and pointing back to the cabin. He could hear Sam’s frustrated swearing but then he felt a prick on his exposed neck. He winced, swatting his hand back—it couldn’t be an insect, too cold for them, a stray bramble maybe?—and felt a cool hard material and a needle that was stuck in his neck.

“I’m sorry, Cas, it had to be done.”

Cas reeled around on his brother, panting for breath and wobbling on his feet. Poison? No, he had built up immunity after all the poison berries he ate in his younger, stupid years, and Sam would never poison him, no matter how frustrating he was.

“Animal tranquilizer, got some from the vet’s office in town. Apparently this serum works well on birds.”

Cas whimpered and fell to his knees, struggling to keep his eyes open but the lids felt so heavy and his eyes felt like they were covered in sand. He struggled to lift his wings, to push Sam away when he drew near, but was powerless when Sam grabbed him beneath his armpits and dragged him onto his hunting sleigh. His heart was beating as fast as it could, given the circumstances, and he truly felt like a drugged animal, powerless to fight off his captor as he was taken away from the tree line. Last thing he saw before fading into a fitful unconsciousness was Sam’s face looking down at him, and _Dean’s_.

 

“Lord Michael, news on the…issue we discussed.”

“Yes of course, what is it?”

“A woman from a small town, north of the border, claims to have seen an individual with wings, though she does not know how old he is, or where he came from.”

“There’s a good chance she might not know, given the fact the child is with _Gabriel_ …Send word to the captains, tell them to focus their search on that area, and if they find anything, anything at all, they must report back immediately.”

“Yes, your grace.”

Michael watched as the sentry left the throne room, leaving him alone with his thoughts. That damn fool Gabriel, he knew exactly what he was doing when he took that child from the Basilica all those years ago. Michael could not ascend to the high throne until all other descendants of his father were either deceased or abdicated of their power. How was he to know that he had a long lost older brother, a half blood that shouldn’t even be able to assume the throne, yet apparently he could, and had every right to as well. If the child, no, _man_ showed up in the next hour with proof of his ancestry, he could assume the Holy Throne then and there, no strings attached. Now, all likelihood of this occurring was slim, but Michael couldn’t help but be wary, he was a cautious man, after all.

He sighed and stood from his throne. By law he was not permitted to sit in the Holy Throne till he assumed power over the Empire, until then he would sit in the smaller throne, off the pedestal, to the left. He walked from the room, not really looking at anyone or anything that crossed his path. He was too caught up in his thoughts, thoughts most foul, but who would know but himself?

He rounded a corner and bumped into a lowly servant, and he sneered at her, tucking his robe about him and stalked away. She couldn’t help the small sob that escaped her lips when she fell to the floor. She knew why the Prince was behaving so erratically, why the Ministers were buzzing about in nervous energy day in and out. It had been discovered that an illegitimate child had been born to the previous Emperor, but since he had been born before the true heir, his blood took precedence over Michael’s. She silently passed a prayer to heaven, pleading with the Lord to guide the True Prince safely home, to assume the throne and perhaps end the curse on his ancient house.

“Be strong, girl.”

A white cloaked figure pulled her to her feet, smiling and holding her hand gently till she righted herself.

“Thank you, lord Uriel.”

The man smiled and tucked his obsidian wing around her shoulder, ushering her down the hall.

“Now, Anna has told me the story about the long lost Holy Child. I’m sure you’ve heard of it as well. What do you make of it?”

“My lord?”

“How does it make you feel? I for one desire the Prince to return home. Too much has gone wrong in the Empire as of late, we need an Emperor who would be wise in the ways of the people, would right all these wrongs. We need him the way he is, raised outside of the Basilica’s influence.”

“M-my lord, I couldn’t possibly…”

Uriel chuckled and paused outside the entrance to the Basilica.

“Pay me no heed, child, I am just an old fool, caught up in…too many memories…”

The girl nodded, bowing slightly before ushering off to her duties. Uriel sighed, watching her go as he fiddled with a locket in his pocket. Speaking so openly of the “Unholy” Prince had been outlawed by Michael, and so wearing the locket would be treasonous. He quickly paced his way to his quarters, shutting and locking the door. He sat at his desk and placed the locket in front of him, opening it slowly, reverently.

Inside laid a small picture of a child, rosy cheeked with a full head of black hair and the brightest eyes he had ever seen. Tiny downy wings sprouted from his back, poking out of his oversized robes and feathers stuck every which way. His wings were tawny, though a shade darker than his sire’s. And strangely enough for one so young he held the darkest scowl Uriel had ever seen. He chuckled, remembering when he was introduced to the child, in secret of course. The child had always looked so upset, frowning at everything, though he never shed a tear. It seemed more of a general disgruntlement, and Uriel felt the same lately, and found his thoughts straying to the tiny Prince.

He remembered the day when Gabriel planned on escaping with him. Gabriel had loved Anna, and therefore loved whatever child that came from her, regardless if he was the sire, and he took Castiel as his own. When he learned of the plot to murder Anna and her infant son he knew he had to act quickly. He enlisted Uriel’s help, and before the older man knew it, Gabriel, Anna and the boy were sailing away, north bound to escape the clutches of the Empire. Uriel remembered standing on that dock in the chill of the morning, when the sun hadn’t quite risen yet and a quiet settled on the water. He remembered a rumble in the distance, and couldn’t help but take it as a bad omen. Now he wondered where exactly Gabriel had taken his woman and child, and if he ever planned on returning to the Empire.

Uriel hoped, for Castiel’s sake, they would stay as far away as they could.

 

He woke to a resounding pain in his back and head, and he gasped out a breathy whine, writhing in his restraints. He had already woken earlier, dazed and frightened beyond reason. They had tied him down, he was grounded, tethered, beaten into submission. Dean had been there, trying to soothe him, trying to speak with him over the pounding in his ears but he couldn’t bear to see him. Now he was awake again, and alone with his pain. He heard a shuffle beyond his limited, blackened vision, and no, he was not alone.

“Cas? Cas, you awake?”

Cas punctuated Dean’s name, creating the faintest of whispers and immediately the man was there, holding his hand and soothing his bunched muscles.

“Stop fighting, Cas, stop, you’ll only hurt yourself even more.”

 _More?_ Cas thought, mentally casting around, searching for hidden aches, and there it was, a low bloom of heat in his right wing. He twitched it and immediately squealed in pain. He jerked his head around on the table, searching for his wound in the dark, and saw his wing hanging limply to the side, unnaturally slack and the tip remained unresponsive.

“Please stop fighting,” Dean whimpered, tightening his hold on Cas’s hand. “You woke up before this, you were thrashing so much, I-I couldn’t hold you down and you…you broke your _wing_ , Cas…”

Cas sobbed, letting his head fall back to the table. The pain was all encompassing, it prodded white-hot at his brain and he panted in exertion.  

“I’m sorry Cas, I’m so sorry…”

He writhed and whined on the hard table, keening sharply whenever he jostled his wing.

“C’mon Cas, please…”

Cas frantically shook his head, he had to get _out_.

“Don’t make me do this…”

Cas looked over at where he heard Dean‘s voice, saw his brother with another needle filled with a clear liquid, _the tranquilizer_. Cas frantically shook his head, ceasing his struggling. His head hurt enough, he didn’t want to go through that again. Dean visibly deflated, placing the needle on the table and Cas scooted away from it as much as he was able.

“We had to stop you from leaving. The soldiers from the Empire are in the town, interrogating people as we speak. If you had gone in the woods it would have been all over.”

Cas narrowed his eyes in confusion. What did the Empire have to do with anything? They didn’t worship his Gods, only John had ever set foot there, and only he had had any connection with it before he died. Dean sighed, glancing away.

“We’ll talk about it later. For now we just need to keep you hidden and safe.”

Cas found himself nodding, trusting his older brother as he once did. He found he _wanted_ to trust Dean, regardless of what they had been through the past few months. He whirred to catch Dean’s attention and the man turned back to him, unveiled hope shining in his eyes. Cas beat his other, non-injured wing in the air, smiling slightly and looking away. Dean grinned and sat back on the table, fiddling with the feathers that had fallen from the younger’s wings in the upset. Dean hesitated, for a mere moment, before leaning over and sealing Cas’s mouth with his in a chaste kiss. Cas whined, jerking his head forward to deepen the kiss and Dean grunted, pushing Cas back and pushing himself up on the table, straddling him.

He leaned fully onto his brother, crushing him down onto the old wood, licking and biting into his mouth and Cas sighed around his tongue. He swiftly forgot about his broken wing, immersing himself in the pleasures of his brother’s talented tongue. It had been far too long, for both of them, to worry about consequences. Dean moaned and began to grind down on Cas’s swiftly filling member, panting with his eyes shut, focused solely on chasing his own pleasure. Cas bucked up and whined when heat pooled in his groin, when the pressure of Dean’s hips almost became too much. Dean whined and scooted back, unzipping his pants and yanking down Cas’s simple drawstring buckskin pants, releasing each other to the cool cellar air.

Dean worked them both in his hands, concentrating, and Cas focused on the line of sweat that disappeared down the collar of Dean’s shirt, and he licked his lips, wishing he could have chased that bead of salt water with his tongue. Dean’s hand left him and he looked down when he heard a grunt. Dean was using their collective precome and was opening himself up, fucking down on his own fingers and Cas almost growled in lust. Dean saw him looking and he leaned back on one hand, displaying himself for his mate’s perusal and Cas purred in delight, watching him tremble and clench around three of his own thick, calloused fingers.

Cas yanked halfheartedly at his restraints again, wanting to feel his mate, to touch him for the first time in many months, but Dean was in no position to stop just to release him, and Cas didn’t want his brother to stop anyway. Dean pulled his fingers from his body moments later, spitting on his hand and lubing Cas up, and that was his only warning before Dean began to sink down on him. Cas let his head fall back and he issued a tight sigh, groaning ever so slightly when he bottomed out, feeling Dean’s trembling thighs on his hips. Dean didn’t even pause to adjust, he just started to fuck himself on Cas’s straining dick. Cas grunted in surprise, looking down, eyes furrowed in confusion. Dean wasn’t nearly as tight as he should have been given his minimal preparation.

“Fucked myself on my fingers…almost every night imagining it was you…only slept with Lisa once,” he stuttered his hips and issued a breathy chuckle turned moan, “figures that be the time I got her pregnant.”

Cas couldn’t believe it, his mate had only slept with the woman _once_. Maybe, just maybe, his mate still loved him, still needed him. Dean was almost punishing in his pace, slapping down hard onto Cas’s rigid flesh and Cas, though reluctant, bucked up to meet him. It was pleasure bordering on pain with Dean, always. They were never soft, they weren’t women, they needed no sympathy or coaxing or sweet words in the dark by candlelight; they were men, and they would love like men. The sounds his mate made in response to his participation were borderline animalistic; grunts and groans of his name snarled out between filthy words that hung putrid in the air. They couldn’t love any other way, Cas thought, it wouldn’t be right, it wouldn’t make sense at all. It would be like the paper money in the town, it would be like lights without flame and carriages without horses and things that could fly in the wide sky without blood, bone and feather.

Dean continued to ride Cas, long and hard, moaning and panting his name till shortly they both came, though Cas was understandably less vocal. It had been like the first time Cas had dared touch Dean in such a way. They were young, foolish, and Dean had to fabricate a tale of falling from the roof to explain his prominent limp. Cas and Dean both learned that proper preparation had to be completed before _either_ of them dared a coupling. Dean had been hiding his blood spotted underclothes for days.

Dean cleaned them both up afterwards, and Cas purred in delight when he saw Dean limp slightly. He took care in observing his mate, noticing the deeper set age lines around his eyes and face, how he seemed…lessened. The man he grew up with, the man who he fell in love with, the man he mated with, was disappearing. He had to take him away, had to take him into the _wild_ where everything would be perfect. But these Empire people…they seemed to be the ones holding him back from his dream.

 

“How’s your brother?” Lisa asked the next night over dinner. Dean paused, fork almost to his mouth.

“I set his wing,” he grimaced, remembering Cas’s shrill cries. The man never spoke in his life, and Dean could count on one hand the times he ever made a noise of any kind, and those screams had been the worst.

“It was a clean break; he’ll be fine once he’s on the mend.”

Lisa nodded, though she didn’t look all that pleased. Dean frowned and placed his hand over hers.

“Baby, what’s wrong?”

Lisa dropped her fork with a resounding clang, and the other patrons of the restaurant glanced at their booth but swiftly returned to their dinner and conversation.

“I’m pregnant, Dean,” she hissed, yanking her hand out of his, “and somehow you have avoided the topic of marriage this entire time.”

Dean clenched his jaw, returning to eating. Of course he had been expecting her to bring it up, but not so soon, especially not during his familial issues with Cas and their mother’s increasing illness. And ever since he and Cas… _mated_ —as he was sure his younger brother would put it—the other night he couldn’t stop thinking about the man. He truly wanted to live with his brother, couldn’t imagine a life without him, and the incident outside the forest made that painfully real for him. He couldn’t bear to see him in pain, and most certainly didn’t want to see him disappear from his life because he couldn’t sort out his priorities. So Dean sighed, placed a few bills on the table—enough to cover the cost of the food and service and then some—then stood.

“I know our relationship has been a little rocky, especially with the whole thing with Cas and mom…I just need more time, that’s all.”

She glared at him and grabbed his wrist.

“ _Sit. Down_.” She hissed, and Dean sighed but complied, if the man was anything he was a gentleman when necessary.

“That’s bullshit, Dean Winchester. I know what it is you’re hiding,” _I doubt that_ , Dean thought, “And I know what those soldiers want, why they’re looking through the northern woods and villages.”

Dean swallowed thickly, but let her continue, she didn’t know what she was saying.

“I’ve seen them, you know, the glass shoes. I found them once when I was helping Sam clean up around the cabin. They aren’t any Winchester heirloom, _I checked_. They’re from the Empire, they have the _royal insignia_ on them, Dean.”

The more she talked, the more Dean fought her grasp, and fought the notion of slapping a hand over her mouth because they were earning a few cursory glances from the surrounding patrons that he could do without.

“I also know you can’t read, _as pathetic as that is_ , so I’ll fill you in on a little bit of information. Underneath the words meaning _Holy Prince_ was carved a single word, do you know what that word was?”

Dean swallowed thickly, fighting back a blush at the insult and the memories of that cold winter’s day, all those years ago, remembered struggling to read those three letters before his father had taken them away forever. Reading was for Sam, fighting was for Dean.

“ _Castiel_ ,” Lisa smirked, like the cat that caught the rat, “except you call him _Cas_ , and he’s tied up in your cellar right now, as we speak. I would tell you how much the reward is for his safe return to the Empire but I know you wouldn’t understand the value.”

Dean scowled at her, wondering how he could have been so foolish to leave his brother after he had just taken what he wanted. He wondered how he could have been so foolish as to agree with Sam to take a woman. All he needed in his life was tied down to a table in the cabin.

“What do you want?” Dean growled, letting his drawl creep back into his words, something he had been carefully schooling away to fit in more with the townsfolk. He had done a lot of things to accommodate Lisa, and he had sacrificed much to keep Cas a secret, and could probably be blamed for their twisted relationship, if that’s what he had to call it. Whatever it was it certainly wasn’t healthy, and keeping Cas in the dark of the ways of the world had turned him into an animal, a base thing with base desires and instincts. And now he was alone, trapped in a cold cellar where he had been forced to live from an early age, with soldiers bearing down on him who would rather kill him than suffer to bring him back alive. Because if Dean knew Cas, and he was sure he did quite well by now, he wouldn’t go down without a horrifyingly grotesque fight. There would be blood, the snow would melt and thicken with it.

“I want you to forget about everything else and stay with me permanently. Raise this child with me, be its father, that’s all I’m asking Dean.”

Dean chuckled dryly, crossing his arms, “Don’t take me for a fool just because I can’t read and don’t understand the value of money as well as you or any other city folk like you. What’s stopping me from just taking off, right here, right now?”

Lisa’s cool demeanor dropped slightly, and Dean winced in momentary sympathy when he saw her sheer desperation. He was responsible for their child, and he knew she would be relying on him in the coming, crucial months; she was already so far along she was fit to burst, but Dean didn’t know how to handle her treachery.

“I still haven’t told the soldiers where he is, just that I’ve seen him.”

Dean nodded, jaw clenching as he slowly began to lose what little respect he held for the woman.

“And did you ever stop to think about why after all these years the Empire would come looking for him?” Dean asked. Lisa bit her lip, and Dean knew she hadn’t. She had just seen an opportunity to keep Dean, and she hadn’t been afraid to use it.

“And did you think about what Cas would do to those soldiers?”

Lisa still had it in her to look frightened, at least.

“Sam was only half right. He does think he’s an animal, but he has turned himself into one. He’s the perfect hunter, the perfect killer, and if threatened he will not hesitate to slaughter.”

 

Cas freed himself of his restraints, though it took some time. He had to move slowly, his wing still throbbed with every step he took, and periodically he had to stifle little grunts and whimpers of pain with every unconscious twitch of his wing. He moved about the cellar deftly and quietly, he couldn’t hear upstairs over the pounding in his ears, yet he could not smell Dean in the house. But he had no idea how long the man would be gone, so he had to make haste. He grabbed several pre-packed bags that were tossed into the corner, most likely by Sam when they returned from the tree line. He repacked all of his hunting gear, extra clothes and shoes, Cas’s clothes, so they wouldn’t fit Dean properly but he could always make more. He quickly crept up the stairs, he had memorized which places in the wood would creak under pressure and which were so settled into the framework of the cabin they wouldn’t make a sound. He silently packed away the few baubles and trinkets he knew Dean enjoyed having, even packed away the man’s savings in human coin, though Cas doubted they needed it, and after a moment’s hesitation even packed away the box on the mantle. He had looked inside once and saw sparkling glass shoes, and figured they would be valuable to _someone_.

With one final glance around the cabin he nodded to himself and left without a second thought. Sam would be home later, Mary was asleep upstairs, she wouldn’t miss him. Sam would take care of her. Cas would double back and hide in the dense forestry surrounding the path to the town and would appear when he saw Dean on his way back to the cabin. He knew Dean, and knew the man wouldn’t leave Cas tied up to that table for long, even though he wasn’t there anymore.

Cas found the perfect spot and hunkered down, drawing his wings around him as best he could and settled in for the long wait ahead of him. He sunk into the heady warmth emanating from his wings, puffing them slightly for a thicker cover from the falling snow. His broken wing had gone numb, and he was glad. He drew his knees up to his chest after some time, resting his chin on them, fighting off his drowsiness, but every time he blinked he found it harder and harder to keep his eyes open. He shook himself, dislodging the built up snow on his wings and shuddered, trying to wake himself. He slapped his cheeks and blinked furiously, focusing on the path instead of his growing fatigue. Soon though his vision began to blur and he couldn’t help but close his eyes just for a short while.

He snorted awake after what only felt like minutes, but judging from the accumulated snow on himself and his belongings and the position of the sun he had been under for quite some time. He listened intently, cocking his head, something had to have woken him up, that’s what always happened when he was on a solitary hunt, alone in the wilderness where his only protection was his bow, knife, and own instinct.

He heard low voices, though not from a great distance. They were hushed, _whispers_ …He retrieved his hunting knife from his bags, sheathing it in his belt before melting into the wilderness, further from the trail. He watched from beneath his hood as strange clothed men meandered into his clearing, poking at his things and upending his bags. Cas didn’t mind, clothes could be rewashed and dried, bags repacked, but when they started rifling through Dean’s possessions he couldn’t help but stifle a snarl. Those weren’t their things, they were Dean’s things, they had no right to touch them.  

He crept closer, noticing that feeling was returning to his wing and he winced, damning the cold and the snow for playing tricks on him. He had to be careful. He found his hidden places again in the snow, making no sound as he prowled closer, grip tightening to white-knuckled pain on his knife when they found the shoe box and opened it. They all gathered around it, putting their backs to him, and their conversation thrummed excitedly through the clearing, though Cas tuned them out. He was practically _on_ them, knife raised to slit one of their throats when he heard a snap from their left. He quickly sprung back into his cover, wincing when his wing caught on a tree limb, stiff and unyielding in the frigid air. _He_ hadn’t made the noise, someone must have been coming along the trail.

He tracked the strange men’s every movement, following them to the main trail, and lo and behold. Lisa Braeden, stomping along through the snowy trail, blown up like a gourd and making so much noise through the trail he could hardly think. His eyes darted from the encroaching men to the woman. He had his priorities, though neither of the two parties was high on his list. He could avoid the men easily if he wanted, but Lisa…Dean still felt for the woman, and even though Cas had every intention to take Dean away with him, by force if necessary, he knew the man would never forgive him if he allowed anything to happen to her.

So, albeit reluctantly, he closed in on the men, taking care not to get out of step or scrape his wings, making unnecessary sounds. Lucky for him the men were too focused on their prey on the trail they didn’t notice the men behind them being picked off, one by one. Cas had approached the straggler, had taken his head in his hands and wrenched, the sickening crunch of the man’s spinal column cracking was covered by the other men’s noise. He treaded to the next, slapping a hand over his mouth and slitting his throat with his hunting knife. Unfortunately his hand was not enough, and his gurgled half-scream was enough to catch his team’s attention before he bled out.

“What the hell?!” One of them shouted, and Cas caught a glimpse of Lisa as she fell to the ground in shock, which was fine by him, as long as she stayed there. The remaining men—there were three—circled him, backing him up till his heels hit the rough stone pavement of the trail. They leered at him, taking in his haggard appearance and obvious fatigue, though one of their number was too busy staring at his wings to make a comment.

“Cas!” Lisa screamed behind him, “Help me, please!”

“Shut up woman,” the obvious leader of the group snarled, and Lisa hiccupped, snapping her jaw shut though Cas could still hear her soft sobs.

“You killed my men,” the man drawled, fingering a heavy pommel at his hip, one encrusted with silver. Cas nodded, not letting his grip slacken from his blade, his wings twitched nervously behind him, bunching up unconsciously and he had to stifle a moan of pain.

“C-Captain, he has _wings_ …” the younger one stammered, pointing and gaping like a foolish, small child.

“Yes, I can see that,” the captain snapped, drawing his sword and Cas crouched, ready to spring into combat.

“You a hunter, wildsman?” The captain asked with a sneer, eyeing his clothes. Cas nodded curtly, not breaking his stance. The man nodded as well, like he expected the answer. He paced around, obviously taking in his appearance.

“They said you would be a hunter, or maybe a farmer, like the other simple minded fools living in this valley. It’s good that you’re a hunter,” the man laughed, stopping in front of him at last, “means you know your way around that knife, means you’re not some bumpkin with a carving blade.”

He had to be like the wolf in a trap, _get out get free get out get out_ -

“Let’s see what you can do…”

What remained when he came back to his senses was carnage. Blood had splattered thick and hot over his wings and face and he blinked rapidly to clear it from his eyes. He licked his lips, tasting copper as he walked forward, hesitantly. His side throbbed, but there was no blood, just dull pain that blossomed with each step around the clearing. He licked at the blood on his hands, wiping the saliva and excess on his ruined buckskin breeches. The men lay about on the ground, contorted from their death throws, and Lisa lay heaving on the path, bleeding and staring at him with fearful eyes.

 

By the time Dean found them in the woods it was too late. Lisa lay in Cas’s arms, bleeding out and in labor, heaving and sobbing his name. Cas had one of his hands on her shoulder and the other on her quivering stomach as she screamed in pain.

His brother’s eyes were wild, and his clothes and feathers were coated in splashes of blood and water and he looked up at Dean, and for the first time in a long time there was fear in his eyes. Dean didn’t know what to do, Cas clearly didn’t either, and he gaped and shook his head, looking at the bodies strewn about the clearing, their packed bags that had been kicked around in the snow and dirt, as well as the mess between his woman’s legs as she screamed out for him hysterically.

“Dean! Oh god, Dean, the baby’s coming…” Lisa broke off in a screech as she tried to curl up in pain, but Cas’s hands held her back. The man kept staring at Dean, pleading with him to do something, to do _anything_. The only births he had ever witnessed were of wild animals, they couldn’t be all that different, could they?

“Breathe, just breathe, girl, I’ve got you…”

Dean crouched in front of Lisa, hunkering down on his knees, preparing to start a fire. He looked up at his brother and saw the same conclusion in his eyes, the same resignation. This was going to be a long night.

 

Dawn was peeking over the edges of the trees when Lisa’s cries finally bled away and the fresh squeals of an infant rang through the stillness of dawn. Dean held the child—a girl he noted—in his arms numbly, watching as the light faded from Lisa’s eyes. Cas held her hands in his, in a vice grip that would surely leave him aching for hours. They hadn’t moved the entire night, and Cas’s battered and blood crusted wings had converged over them, forming a warm barrier against the snow, though the man himself shivered violently.

Lisa’s breaths were shallow, and every movement was labored, she could hardly reach for her newborn without wincing and moaning low in pain. Cas looked down at the sheer amount of blood between her legs and leaking from the wound in her side. Resolutely he looked back up at Dean, and Dean knew what he was telling him with that gaze. She would not last, no medicine would heal her, save for the mercy of a quick death. Dean sobbed and leaned over his newborn child, wishing this was all a dream, that he would wake up and all the years had not passed and he was safe at home with his father and mother and two brothers and nothing had gone awry, Cas had never been locked in that basement, that he would never develop into the _thing_ he was today, that his father would still be alive, and he would have never met Lisa and she wouldn’t have had to die this way.

Cas released one of her hands, letting it fall softly to the ground and he gripped his bloody knife, bringing it to her throat, though she did not notice. Dean kept his eyes on Lisa’s as he took her hand carefully in his, mindful of the screaming infant in his other arm.

“I’m sorry, _I’m so sorry_ …”

Cas slid the blade across her throat and the woman struggled in his grasp, though he merely set his jaw and held onto her, not letting her struggle too much. Dean watched her eyes and wept when he saw her life fade for good, when Cas shut her lids with his now freed hand and let his quaking wings fall around him. They remained that way for hours, infant and bodily aches forgotten. Cas stared at Dean through his fringe, through the feathers that hung in his face, and he certainly was frightened then. He didn’t know what to expect from Dean, he knew that, but he didn’t want to scare Cas, not after everything that had just transpired. He should be the least of Cas’s concerns. He let out a breath he wasn’t aware of holding and he slumped onto the ground, dimly aware of Cas shakily standing, using the tree behind him as leverage, and then he saw him drag Lisa’s body away.

Cas set about cleaning her body of blood, burned her clothes and wrapped her in a fresh sheet before turning to Dean. He didn’t want to leave her here. Wolves would feast on her flesh, same with the other carnivorous beasts of the forest. The ground was too chilled and solid to dig a proper grave. The only send off to the afterlife his woman would have was by fire.

Dean remained on the ground after telling Cas his intention, remained and frantically wondered what he would do with the child. He jumped when Cas placed his hand on his shoulder. He looked behind him and saw a makeshift pyre with Lisa’s body placed on top, white and almost bloodless, possibly ice cold and long lifeless. He swallowed several times, fighting the bile that bubbled in his throat. Cas nudged him, forcing him to stand and he carefully took the child from Dean’s arms, shushing both him and the baby as he moved to their fire, wrapping the still nude and unwashed child in his loose cape. Cas had already begun boiling water and had damp towels he used to wash away the blood and fluids from the child’s body. What he would do to feed and clothe the child he did not know, but he appreciated Cas’s effort.

He took a shuddering breath and staggered to the pyre. Lisa’s lifeless body awaited him, she the wick and he the flame. So he lit her body and watched it be consumed in light and heat till he had to take a step back lest he himself wished to be engulfed in the flames.

“I loved you,” he murmured, though he felt the bitter tang of the lie on his tongue and its weight in his heart.

 

Cas watched his mate burn the woman, watched him grieve. He would not intervene, it was not his place. Cas knew Dean had loved the woman, though he himself would probably deny it. He loved her in a specific way that didn’t entirely come from the soul, Cas understood that now.

He shuddered and dragged his near unresponsive wings about him, teeth chattering as he shuffled as close to the fire as he dared with the small baby held in his arms. The pitiful thing was wailing, burying into his blood encrusted clothes in search of her mother’s milk. He could not give her that. He leaned to the side, rummaging around in his food sack, he must have brought something he could give her. For she was his child now. His and Dean’s. He had to make sure she survived the night. Dean would never forgive him if he allowed the baby to die.

His hand closed around a small can and he tore it out in triumph. Condensed milk—bought from the towns for Mary’s recipes—though not mother’s milk, would still suffice. He took out a small pan and used his knife to puncture the lid, pouring some inside and allowing it to heat next to the fire. He reached into the sack again, trying to find some way to funnel it into the baby’s mouth. He cleaned his other hand off in the snow and used his fingers to stir the milk around, feeling the temperature, cradling the child in his crossed legs. How to feed it to her? He found a small, empty buckskin canteen. He raised his eyebrows in momentary thought, cataloguing everything he packed, and poured the milk into it. He cut a small hole in the corner—he could spare a single canteen for the child—and brought it to her small mouth, making soft encouraging noises, tipping her head up to the pouch.

Soon enough she latched onto the small trickling hole and began to suck, feebly of course, but at least she was on her way to being saved. He slumped in relief, rocking her back and forth and rumbling low in his chest. She snuggled closer and gazed up at him with the clearest green eyes he had ever seen. She had her father’s eyes.

The milk ran out, but he wanted to conserve their supplies, opting to save what was left in the can for later feedings. He poured the rest of the milk in a remaining pouch and sealed it, packing it away and settled onto his side, covering them with his uninjured wing. He watched as the little girl blinked wearily before she slid into much needed rest. He smiled, smoothing a thumb over her small cheek as he watched her sleep.

He heard the crunch of Dean’s heavy boots over the snow and gravel before he felt the heat of the man’s body against his back. He sighed when Dean poured the remainder of the heated water over his injured wing, rubbing the sore muscles and wiping away the blood, straightening the ruffled feathers. It had been awhile since Dean had properly groomed him, and he looked forward to the feeling, settling down further on the ground and cushioning the small baby in his arms. The girl was asleep, snoozing away nestled in his furs and the soft, downy underside of his wing and he purred when Dean straightened out a particularly gnarled feather, one that had refused to lay flat since the fight. He couldn’t help but feel overly warm in the presence of his mate, had to fight the urge to display himself for his use, that would be inappropriate in front of the baby, especially after Dean’s “loss”…

Dean didn’t speak a word for the rest of the night, not even when the baby girl woke and began to scream and wail for milk. Cas sighed and shifted onto his elbows, still enfolding the newborn in his wing, and reached for the milk sack. Dean woke from behind Cas at the first sounds, grunting in annoyance as he was shifted with Cas’s every movement. The winged man smiled bitterly as the girl suckled at the sack, staring up at him. Dean tugged on Cas’s cloak till the hunter got the hint. He rolled over onto his back, rearranging himself so the baby would be on his chest and Dean could be cocooned in his wings. Dean thankfully settled more on the frozen ground than his tender appendage, half draping himself over Cas for added warmth as he stared at them both; his hunter and his child.

“I don’t know what to do,” Dean spoke at last in a voice roughened with sorrow. He tentatively reached around Cas’s waist to trace his daughter’s cheek with a coarse thumb, who barely minded, too intent on feeding to notice. Cas flopped his wing impatiently against the ground with an added grunt, glaring at his older brother. They didn’t have to do anything if they didn’t want to. Dean knew that as well as he did. The threat was gone, in Cas’s opinion. Lisa was gone, the men were gone, they could continue living the way they wished to live. The townspeople would believe Dean, proof could be given if they doubted him anyway, and he would be free to move back to the cabin. He could live with his mate again, could live with Sam and with Mary again. He could raise his daughter there; the cabin was first and foremost a family home, and Cas knew no one else would mind.

Cas’s mind still lingered on those soldiers though. Something they had said disturbed him. One of the soldiers seemed almost hesitant to fight him upon seeing his wings. Such a curious reaction garnered his attention, but Cas could think of little else than the immediate future, of what dawn would bring.

 

Let it never be said that Michael was not an honorable man. He liked to see his affairs through to the end, and in good order and esteem. Let it never be said that Michael was the one that stabbed foreign dignitaries in the dark alcoves that littered the Holy Empire, instigating wars in the surrounding countries that the Basilica profiteered from, discretely of course. Let it never be said that he struck a servant repeatedly till he succumbed to his injuries when he learned that the Unholy Child still lived and had murdered an entire band of reconnaissance soldiers just south of the border.

He snarled and hurled a clay jar of wine at the far wall of his chambers, momentarily satisfied at the loud crash and tinkle of the pieces falling to the floor. He paced in front of his desk, glancing furiously at the picture on the desktop. It was a blurry, grainy capture; it could have been anyone or anything in the black and white four by four, but the bulky, dark mass on its back that branched out above its head betrayed its identity. The Unholy Child—the result of an unnatural union between the former ruler and an ignorant servant girl—still lived, still breathed free air and lived outside of the Empire. Michael was powerless to act against him without resorting to underhanded methods of violence that he usually didn’t much care for. Usually.

He bit his lip and consulted the continent map on the wall across the room, taking care to notice the placement of the sightings. The Unholy seemed to travel extensively, his men couldn’t pin an exact area in which to search. It seemed at first to be just a massive expanse of empty land and it was odd that the man would go there at all. But the more detailed reports that were delivered, the more pieces fell into place. He seemed to be a hunter, seeing as every area he visited was known to be gathering grounds for game, known mainly by hunters who grew up in the surrounding area. These were migration routes and hereditary fields, hunters from other continents or even from the opposite side of the Empire would not know of these lands. The sightings and reports seemed to indicate that the Unholy spent numerous weeks in those areas. Michael had a fuzzy idea of his location, though he had to consider the possibility that he really _was_ a hunter-trapper and as such would constantly be on the move.

If only he could discern exactly where the ship carrying the Unholy had wrecked onto the shore, perhaps it would be better to send patrols to the riverside rather than search for a needle in a haystack. He traced the Great River with his index finger, humming in thought. If he could find the wreckage, perhaps some hint was given as to where the traitor and the Unholy had gone.

 

Cas woke shuddering and coughing, feeling dagger-like cold spread over his wings and body. He instinctively clutched the still warm baby girl to his chest, protecting her from whatever had happened. He could barely open his eyes due to the harsh, diffused light of the morn, but something had woken him. Again, he wasn’t one to simply drift in and out of sleep, something or someone was close.

He stood on shaky legs and stumbled around their ramshackle camp. His wings trailed unresponsive behind him, but soon blood flow would return, he was hardly concerned about that. He felt the baby girl’s heartbeat, was unconcerned about her. But Dean, Dean was missing. Once more in his life he damned his lack of speech, and whirled around in the clearing, looking for any sign, any hint at where Dean had gone. Their fire had died, Lisa’s funeral pyre a black smudge against the white of the forest floor. Her ruins and wrappings burned away to nothing overnight, all that had been her was gone with the fire and the smoke. The girl began to wake and move against his breast, and he keened in distress, puttering about the camp, looking for any trace of his mate. He knew he needed to calm himself, his heart beat against his ribs painfully and he fought for each breath, and the girl’s wails filled his ears, he couldn’t hear anything over their panic, and he tried shushing her gently. Nothing worked, and he whimpered and sat by what had remained of the fire, stroking the girl’s head in what he hoped was a soothing manner.

He focused and heard distant chopping noises, somewhere to his left. He relaxed and settled further onto the ground, bringing his shivering wings around his body and the little girl’s. Within the hour Dean returned with an axe over his shoulder and a pile of wood in his other arm, soot and wood splinters covering his face and clothes. He smiled at Cas and merely glanced at his child, something grim flashing across his face before it was gone in an instant. Cas tightened his grip and nodded at him, watching him start a new fire. Dean eventually sat down on the opposite side of the new flame and Cas whined at him, wondering why his mate chose to sit alone rather than share his body heat.

“We can’t go back, Cas.” Dean said instead, poking at the fire with a stick. “There are soldiers everywhere; ain’t a secret who they’re looking for.”

Cas swallowed and adjusted his grip on the girl, and again, Dean gave her that _look_ , and for once Cas couldn’t stand it. He growled low in warning, tucking the girl closer against his chest, beneath his furs. Dean’s eyebrows shot up, in alarm or amusement Cas could not tell, but he smirked, stoking the fire again.

“What, you thinking you gonna keep that thing?” Dean chuckled. “It’s too dangerous to have a child out here. And there’s no way Lisa’s folks will take it…they didn’t exactly approve.”

Cas of course understood none of this, what was the danger? Cas was an animal of the forest and as such would protect his new child with all of his might. Her mother had perished, that was no fault of the baby’s, and it shouldn’t be handled that way either. His wings bristled at the thought of losing her, of leaving her behind. He wouldn’t let it happen, even if he had to fight his mate for the right. He snarled and stood, setting the baby on a nest of blankets by the fire as he set about packing his things, ignoring Dean’s protests.

“You’re just gonna take her? Just like that? _She’s not yours, Cas_. You’ll never have a child, you should just accept it-”

Cas growled and knocked Dean to the ground, straddling his hips and keeping him there as he bit his neck. Dean was sorely mistaken if he thought he could talk to Cas like that, and he would show him his place. He gnawed on the delicate flesh, not satisfied till Dean let out a pained shout and he tasted the copper of blood, and Dean’s body fell back to the ground in submission.

“Cas, I’m sorry, I’m sorry…” Dean wheezed against the dirt with his eyes screwed shut and Cas drew back only a little, huffing against the inflamed flesh, lapping at the sweat covered skin in slight apology. What Dean didn’t realize was that _he_ had given him his child, willingly or not he had fulfilled his duty to his mate. Cas nuzzled against his brother’s neck, satisfied when Dean remained limp and unresisting in his grasp, and then he pulled away, though still sitting on his lap. Dean’s trembling hands trailed up his mate’s thighs, haltingly, breaths hitching on every overexerted exhale as he worshipped his alpha’s body. Cas hummed in pleasure, moving his hips around on Dean’s lap. He could feel his mate’s excitement against his tailbone, and he ground back against it, reveling in the breathy gasp issued from Dean’s lips.

Cas cocked his head and gazed down at his lover, sitting heavier on his swelling member and rolling against it sensually slow, painfully slow, smirking at every hitched breath and moan issued from his mate’s lips.

“I want in you, Cas, I want in…” Dean groaned, bucking his hips up in jerky half-stutters. Castiel uttered a breathy chuckle, the most positive emotion he had displayed in a long time. He leaned down and licked a trail up Dean’s neck to his chin, loving the taste of soot and sweat and his brother’s innate essence that was ever present. Dean’s hands fumbled with the ties on his leggings, pulling them and his long-johns down his thighs as far as they could go. His hands, cold from the wintery air, landed on Cas’s buttocks and he flinched. Cas distracted himself by removing Dean’s clothes as well, sighing into the older man’s mouth when Dean’s erection was freed into the air. He took it in hand, stroked it carefully and spread the beading precome from the tip to the root, breathing in the heady smell of lust and pheromones in the close air.

He began rolling his hips again, selfish in his own pleasure, and Dean clamped his hands down on them. Cas whined in frustration, tossing his head and glaring down at his lover. Dean smirked and put two of his fingers in his mouth, suckling at them, getting them good and wet before trailing them underneath Cas’s spread legs. Cas shuddered and gasped loudly when Dean shoved them inside his hole with no preamble. The sounds of the forest could be heard in tandem with Cas’s shaky breaths and the thick squelching of preparation. It had been a long time since he had submitted to his brother like this, he was ill-prepared for the penetration and his body burned with pain and lust equally. He was torn between rutting down against the intrusion or scrabbling away and hissing like the creature he was. Lucky for him, Dean didn’t give him the time to choose.

In a blurred second Cas was on his back, staring up at the heather gray sky with his wings pinned awkwardly beneath him. Dean immediately loomed into his vision, devouring his lips when his arms hooked under Cas’s knees, pulling them apart. There was a precious moment when Cas felt the head of Dean’s cock against his entrance that sent his world into silence. He ceased to breathe, no sound entered his senses and his entire being thrummed in anticipation.

And then it was interrupted by a shrill, wailing cry from his left.

Dean groaned, collapsing onto Cas’s chest and the hunter let his head fall back against the ground in frustration. Cas strained his neck to look over, and saw the little girl wriggling in her wrappings, little arms flailing in the air for her mother’s embrace, and possibly for sustenance too. He clucked his tongue and rolled out from beneath Dean, crawling to the fire where the baby lay and he pulled her into his arms. She didn’t immediately calm, but the more he shushed her and bounced her on his knee the more her sobs turned to happy gurgles. He cooed at her softly, smiling at her toothless grin, her green eyes sparkling in the firelight.

He half turned when he heard a deep moan. Dean stood at one end of the clearing braced against a tree as he brought himself to completion. Cas licked his lips and stared as his mate’s body shuddered through his release, and he could immediately smell the salty tang of ejaculate in the air. He wished he could have tasted it, but he knew there were things that shouldn’t be done in front of a child, mating being one of them.

Cas willed his arousal away. It wasn’t hard, he had lived months in the harsh countryside, pleasure was not a priority, and soon enough he was flaccid and cold once again. He cast about, still cradling the girl against his chest, looking for some of his clothes.

“Here,” Dean murmured, coming back over to the fire, holding out Cas’s pants and long-johns. “I’ll hold her,” and he took the girl out of his hands, tossing Cas’s clothes onto his lap. He huffed and stood, pulling on his clothes and kept a wary eye on Dean and the child. He hadn’t mistaken that look from before; Dean held no love for the little girl, not as much as he should anyway. But when he looked at him now, he saw a glimmer of fondness, maybe affection, in his eyes. That was good, it helped calm his nerves as he pulled the rest of his clothes on, shrugging on his top and numerous jackets, and lastly his cloak that helped shield his wings from the cold and elements. His breath fogged in his face and he smiled, wondering how Dean and he had even considered mating on the frozen ground.

 

Uriel might have been old, but he was no fool. He understood the stirrings in the Basilica for what they were, unrest and unease. Trickery was afoot in the upper echelons, and he would be damned if he didn’t try and put a stop to it. He saw it in the way servants scurried about, like little messenger doves with rolled scraps of paper tied to their delicate little feet. He saw it in the way the Ministers spoke in hushed tones in every drafty corner of the Basilica, in the back alleys of the Holy Empire. Something was stirring, like a great demon rising up from a slumber, and he was staring down into the belly of it, alone to challenge it.

He took to studying alone in his chambers, venturing out only if necessary. Soldiers roamed freely throughout the halls, and would stop anyone they deemed suspicious. Newcomers were downtrodden, beaten things that Uriel pitied. They had made the journey to the Empire in hopes of a new, gilded life, but given how things were they were not welcomed with open arms.

“Come along, child,” Uriel uttered to a disheveled peasant girl that had collapsed at the doors of the Basilica. Her head rolled limply on her spindly neck, and she remained unresponsive. He picked her up and brought her to the kind women of the Ministry. They would help her. One such woman took the child from his hands, sighing and crossing herself at the pitiful sight.

“My lord, if things continue as they are…”

“I know, madam. All we can do now is pray.”

She pursed her lips and nodded at him, taking the girl inside. Uriel left, knowing the child was in good hands. He wandered back to the interior of the Basilica, tracing his hands over the equally worn and forgotten murals on the walls of time and events long past. He gazed up at the image of the previous Emperor—his likeness had been struck from the wall—and imagined what the Lost Prince’s face must look like. Would he look like his father? Would those boyish features mature into harsh angles and bone structure that would speak for generations of royalty flowing through his veins? Or would he come to take after his mother? With rounder features and a softness that belied a grace and humility that many would come to rely on in these dark times. One thing Uriel knew for sure, those eyes of his would continue to burn blue like the sharpest, hottest flames found at the center of any inferno.

Without meaning to, the Lost Prince had become a symbol to the beleaguered masses beneath Lord Michael. Uriel knew he didn’t have much time left; he just hoped he lived long enough to see the homecoming of one Castiel, the true Holy Prince.

 

With Dean’s adamant refusal to return to town, let alone to their cabin, they set out deeper into the forest. It was a region Cas had trekked before, and he remembered adequate shelter spots and areas they should avoid in fear of pitfalls, traps and other predators. The going was slow and hard; Cas took to the environment like a fish in water with the baby tucked close in a sling around his chest, but Dean struggled behind with most of their belongings on Cas’s sled. They had to stop often to change the baby’s wrappings and feed her. Dean still hadn’t named her, he started calling her Girl, and Cas knew that would be the closest thing to a name that she would get. It wasn’t out of hatred or neglect, he just couldn’t bring himself to give her a name without his—now dead—wife’s input. Cas understood on some base level why.

Dean was hiding something, that much he knew when he snuck glances behind at the struggling man. His face tightened whenever he looked upon him, whenever Cas expressed some desire to turn back the deeper they trekked. Sometimes Cas would find him mispronouncing his name, adding more syllables at the end that sounded strange and unwanted to his ears. Dean would be quick to correct himself, but the slip did not go unnoticed.

After about two months of the same drudge, Cas finally drew to a stop next to a lazily trickling brook. He put his hands on his hips, breathing deep and almost choking on the sharp winter air. He panted and turned back to his companion, watched him struggle up the rocky terrain and then toss their bags to the ground in frustration.

“What, what is it? Why are we stopping?” Dean growled, and Cas snorted, turning to look back out at the view.

“I get it, you’re mad at me. C’mon man, we can’t go back, it’s too late now. Way too late.”

Cas didn’t turn back, but he could hear Dean grunt and curse in frustration.

“Can you just say something? Please?”

Cas shrugged and looked down at Girl’s little head, soft tufts of hair blowing about in the breeze. She was beautiful, everything he could ever want in a child, and she was _his_ , without a doubt now. Dean made it perfectly clear he wanted nothing to do with her, so it fell to Cas to care for her. The only problem was they were running out of supplies, and they were too far north now. Their only choice would be to double back and try to live off the land till they made it home, or continue north to the Empire, which based on Dean’s aversion to the soldiers, would be a horrific idea. Yet their list of options wore thin as time went on, the farther they went, and besides the Empire no civilization was closer. He hated the idea of venturing there, but soon enough their survival would depend on it.

“We don’t have a whole lot of options, Cas.” Dean sighed when Cas played with Girl with his fingers. She would grab at them and he would pull them away and she giggled madly at the sport.

“Would you listen to me?” Dean hissed and Cas spared him an exasperated look over his shoulder, half turning at least.

“I remember Dad talking about a fishing village he came across on his way south from the Empire. If we can find it maybe they won’t mind us staying for a while, just till we get back on our feet, figure out where we’re headed from here.”

Cas looked down at the stream and knew Dean had a valid point. Where there was a stream, there was a river, where there was a river there was bound to be a lake, and this far north there was bound to be a settlement of some sort.

“I don’t know what they’ll think of your wings though…” Dean trailed off, staring at them, as if for the first time.

Cas cooed at him in confusion, tucking them behind his body in a brief flash of embarrassment. He had never felt shame about them before, he wondered about it now. Should he be worried about exposing them in public? He remembered back to Lisa, how she had initially reacted upon seeing them, then the soldier in the forest. They certainly weren’t normal, he knew that much from seeing his brothers and the various men that visited their father when he was still alive. But he had never wondered about them before, never thought them an abnormality to be ashamed of. Wasn’t it Dean who brought him the cloak that he was wearing at that very moment? The cloak that, if he worked his wings the right way, would cover them completely? Dean caught his look and fought to continue.

“I mean, what with the Empire out looking for you and all we might look a little suspicious. We are getting closer to the Empire after all.”

Cas still recoiled from Dean’s placating touch, and settled for pressing on, trying to ignore the painful pricks of tears fighting to spill from his eyes.

 

“What do you mean, Dean’s gone?” Mary screeched at Sam, flinging her morning cup of tea at his head.

“Mother, calm down, please…”

“And I hear that mongrel is gone as well? He took my Dean from me…” She moaned, clutching at her heart and falling back onto her pillows. Sam sighed and blew a wayward strand of hair from his face. In her sickness, their mother had developed a flair for the dramatics. She also no longer held her hatred for Cas in check. Sam had always known she harbored slight resentment for the winged man, but he never knew how much till the night their father died. After she locked Cas in the basement, after those weeks he battled illness and night terrors day after day, night after night. Sam knew that’s when his relationship with Dean first started, or rather, first bloomed into the carnal thing it was now.

The two had been gone for about three months now, and if Sam knew them well they would be long gone from the region, too far to reach anyway. He knew it was best, but he really wished Dean or Cas had left some sort of message for him, so he would know where they were headed or if they were ever planning on coming back. He knew that it was probably better that he didn’t know, but those soldiers that kept coming around during the day, he knew they wouldn’t believe him. After all, what kind of brother would he be if he didn’t know where they were going? And with the news of Lisa’s disappearance as well, things were beginning to close in on the Winchester house, and prospects weren’t good at all. Just then he heard a thundering knock on their door and he bit his lip, knowing who was there. He left his mother and trudged down the stairs, pausing to fix his hair and clothes into some semblance of normalcy before swinging it open.

The man on the other side looked about as flustered as he was, hand half raised to knock again. Definitely not an Empire soldier, Sam thought, looking at his furs and dark tanned skin. He had clear blue eyes, though they were red-rimmed and blood shot from lack of proper sleep. His cheeks were rosy from wind burn and his flaxen hair had blown about every which way in the wind. Living on a hill had its pros and cons, strong winds being one of the cons. He also looked like he was about to have an emotional breakdown, which was kind of sad seeing it on a grown man.

“Um, hi, uh, I’m Gabriel, I’m looking for someone and I think you can help.”

“C-come in,” Sam said, ushering him in and looking behind Gabriel’s shoulder before closing the door.

He turned and saw Gabriel looking around the den, something in his face falling when he let the furs and skins fall off of him in heaps. There were a great many and most looked like the ones you would find in a general store, not any you would make yourself.

“It’s freezing out there, you know, _it’s freezing in here!_ ” Gabriel stuttered, making his way over to the fire. Sam daintily stepped around the furs and followed the man to the fire.

“You’re not from around here, are you?” Sam laughed as the man plunked down practically on the hearth, as close as he could get to the roaring fire. The man’s teeth chattered as he glared half-heartedly up at Sam.

“What gave me away?” He muttered dryly. Sam chuckled and sat down himself, though on a chair close by.

“So, what makes you think I can help you?” He asked, allowing the man a few minutes to compose himself.

“I passed through here once before, years ago now, and I…you have to understand…circumstances were dire and I might have…lost a baby.”

Sam narrowed his eyes in confusion but urged him to continue.

“I mean, it’s not like I _lost him_ , lost him. I just woke up from my nap and he was gone. I had him underneath me so he wouldn’t get too cold, you know? All squashed up and everything, _it was very cute_ , point is, someone must have taken him from me ‘cause there is no way he could have wriggled his chubby little body out from beneath me without me noticing.”

The man gabbed on and on about the baby and how cute he was and how hard he would be to miss, but something about the man, about his story particularly, tickled at the edge of his memory. It reminded him of a harsh winter afternoon, when he and Dean had traveled up to the edge of their property that was marked by edgy outcroppings that began the cliffs and mountains. He remembered struggling with Impala, their dad’s old horse, and remembered how she kept tossing her head and neighing impatiently, stomping her hooves at him. He remembered grumbling about dumb horses, and remembered Dean chastising him in his silent way, telling him that old horses like Impala could sense things, and that something was afoot in the mountains. He remembered Dean telling him about how all animals in the world are connected with the earth and the earth could speak to them all, could warn her children of danger, and as such could protect them from harm. He remembered he and Dean looking around the path, wary in the way a child would be, and then he remembered seeing red snow and white robes.

Sam fell back against the chair, staring down at the man in shock. He told himself he would never forget that day, the day he saw _a real dead person_ , and the day he gained a younger brother.

“You mean…Cas?”

Gabriel stopped his ranting about the baby’s chubby little hands and turned to look at him, mouth hanging slack.

“Castiel? You know about baby Castiel?”

Sam fidgeted, leaning forward in his seat.

“I don’t know about _Castiel_ but…we found…I remember my family finding a dead man and a half dead baby in the woods, up on the old trail…I never knew why but my brother called him…Cas…”

Something in Gabriel’s eyes sparkled, and he grinned broadly.

“You found him, you were the ones who took him,” and instead of the anger Sam was expecting the man took his hands and kissed them, blinking back tears, “thank you…you saved his life, you took him in, made him your own…bless you…”

Sam jerked his hand away and stood.

“I-I remember…you were _dead_! How are you here?!”

Gabriel jerked up with his hands in front of him, placating.

“Whoa whoa whoa, I wasn’t _dead_ , I was just asleep!”

“Bull shit!”

“Look, I don’t’ know what to tell you, but obviously I’m still alive, right?”

“Y-your back was all torn up…” Sam protested weakly. Gabriel did wince, then, rubbing a hand, perhaps unconsciously, over his shoulder.

“I guess you were too young to know about the…political climate back then.”

“What does that have to do with anything?”

“I’m getting to that! Things were a little tense in the Empire, I couldn’t exactly hang around, especially with…with Castiel. There’s something you gotta know about him first before I say anything, before you agree to help me. Castiel is…he’s a prince; specifically _the_ Prince, the Holy Prince, the Lost Prince, whatever you wanna call him. Point is, Castiel is the true heir to the Holy Throne, in the Empire, and everyone is gunning for him. His own half-brother is after him, and he doesn’t want to invite him to the party, if you know what I mean.”

“Whoa, back up, prince?” Sam cackled, and Gabriel scrunched his face up in indignation. “Buddy, Cas is no prince, far from it.”

“He doesn’t talk, does he?” Gabriel interrupted, and Sam again caught that spark in his eyes. “And he has wings, big, black-”

“They’re brown, actually,” Sam choked out.

“But I bet a dark brown, huh? Just like his daddy’s.” Gabriel quipped. “Good.”

“Yeah I guess, but how did you know he doesn’t talk? He was too young for you to know he never would…”

“Not doesn’t, _can’t_. Castiel will never speak a word in his life.”

“You sound awful sure.”

“Because I _am_ sure, as sure as a curse; Castiel will never speak so long as evil resides in the Basilica.”

“ _Evil_ …” Sam uttered, shaking his head. It was all too much to take in.

“Why do you still doubt who he is?” Gabriel mused quietly. Sam glanced at him, frowning.

“I have no reason to believe you, sir.” Sam said shortly. “You abandoned him. You said you were just sleeping, why did you not try and track him down yourself after waking? You were injured, why did you not seek aid?”

“I couldn’t take him with me, where I was headed was no place for a child like him. And I couldn’t do to him what I did to myself.” Gabriel snarled, unbuttoning his shirt and half-tearing it off in anger, turning so Sam got a view of his back in the dim light. Huge matching scars ran down his back. They were white with age, but still looked painful, they were too big not to hurt with every flex of muscle and movement of arms. Then Sam knew what had been there, what could have possibly left such marks.

“He was too little, I couldn’t do that to him, I couldn’t…I couldn’t take his flight from him before he even knew it…” Gabriel trailed off, voice thick with emotion. Sam pursed his lips, but gently took Gabriel’s shirt and pulled it over his scarred back. He nodded in thanks, buttoning back up and chuckling something about the cold and stupid old scars.

“There was something else too. They were…glass shoes, I think. They would be made of black glass, with blue diamonds, maybe some carvings and filigree…”

“I know them,” Sam said, nodding, “but they’re gone now. Cas must have taken them.”

“Taken them? You mean he’s not here with you?” Gabriel asked, looking around frantically.

“Uh, no…He left with my brother, Dean, months ago.”

“Oh my god, he’s out there all by himself, all alone, probably lost and scared!” Gabriel gasped, and this time Sam couldn’t suppress his mirth.

“Look, Gabriel, have you forgotten it’s been almost twenty years since we found Cas? He’s not a baby any more. He’s far more capable of taking care of himself than my brother is.”

“What do you mean?” Gabriel asked, looking incredibly shifty and yet highly concerned at the same time.

“Cas is…he’s a tracker, a huntsman. Has been since he was old enough for Dean or our father to take him out hunting. He fancies himself an animal.”

Gabriel spluttered indignantly, and Sam smiled ruefully.

“And he is one, an animal. He’s no prince.”

 

Dean and Cas looked down on the tiny fishing camp from their perch on the cliffs. Girl started to cry and Cas placed a finger over her tiny lips and she ceased.

“Remember, no matter what, don’t remove your cloak, don’t show your face if you can avoid it, and whatever you do, don’t fight anyone. If things go bad, you _run_ , understand?” Dean said, turning to his brother, his mate. Truthfully, Dean was scared. He was far out of   his element, he had never spoken with anyone other than his own family and a select few in the village close to their cabin. He knew he was lacking when it came to social skills, and he wasn’t as smart as he would like—Lisa did a fine job of reminding him, he thought wryly—Sam had been smart enough for the both of them. But Sam wasn’t with them now, they had to fend for themselves.

Cas nodded at him, steely eyes set with determination and he saw his grip tighten around Girl. Dean had entertained the idea of leaving Girl with the village; they could raise her as their own. At least there she’d be around people, not two nearly silent men harboring less than healthy sexual feelings for each other. He knew she frustrated Cas as much as she did him, though the winged man didn’t show it as often. But Cas was beginning to bond with Girl, and Dean knew it would be no easy feat to separate them. He set his jaw; perhaps leaving her behind would not be the best decision.

They made their way down the cliff face, utilizing hidden animal trails that Cas spotted easily, and soon they were walking to the edge of the lake. Already there were people, and they all ceased their activity to stare as they trudged to the center of the village. If Dean could just find the village elder, or leader, he could state their purpose and hopefully be offered a place to stay, and if not they would be on their way.

“What business have you here, young man?” A voice asked from behind a large fire at the center of the village. Dean squinted and made out the figure of an old, gnarled woman.

“We were seeking shelter for a few nights, till we can get ourselves straight again. Would you allow us to stay? If not, we’ll just be on our way,” Dean replied, keeping his voice respectful and his head down.

“Is that your woman, there? With your child?” The old woman gestured to Cas, who took a step back; Dean could practically feel his unease.

“Ah, no. He’s my brother, but the child is mine.”

The woman stood and walked to them slowly, glaring at Dean the entire trek around the fire.

“Good, wouldn’t be right to make your woman carry such a heavy pack.” She said, gesturing to Cas’s shoulders, and Dean gulped. The cloak was good for covering the wings, but nothing could mask their girth, no matter how Cas twisted and contorted them. His mate’s body was shaking; no doubt he was in a great deal of pain keeping them bunched up like that. Cas hissed in a breath when the woman approached him and Dean jerked at the sound. Last thing they needed was for Cas to blow up and ruin their chances of a safe haven, if only for a couple of nights. The woman peered up at Cas’s face through his hood, frowning when he shied away, and she grabbed onto the edges of his cloak to keep him still. It jostled his wings, undoubtedly, and Dean saw Cas bite his lip in a move he only knew as suppression of agony. Cas’s wing still hadn’t completely healed from when Dean set it straight, he couldn’t imagine what sort of pain he was in. The woman muttered something under her breath before yanking the cloak even harder, this time eliciting a sharp whine from his hunched form.

“I said show yourself, man, you need not be afraid.” The woman grumbled, clearly exasperated when Cas refused to budge. With one final jerk she pulled the cloak free and Cas fell to his knees with a keening gasp as his wings shot up behind him, whistling and snapping like a still green tree branch caught and released. A chorus of gasps and cries of surprise echoed around the fire, coupled with the pops of bone and cartilage and Cas’s barely suppressed groans of pain. The people around them began whispering and the old woman…Dean saw her press a hand to her heart, and to Cas’s shoulder.

“Is it…is it really you?”

Cas looked up in confusion, clutching Girl to his chest and Dean hurried to his side, pushing the woman back and drawing his knife, crouching above him protectively.

“No! Be not afraid, young man. You are among friends here!” The woman cried, and murmured agreements spread. Dean narrowed his eyes and looked around. The camp, now that he actually noticed, was made up of primarily women and children, and men, but they were few and far between. Some had tears in their eyes as they fell to their knees, pointing and smiling at Cas’s wings, at his exposed face, some Dean could see openly praying, exalting his mate’s name, his full name. Cas was heaving for air, hyperventilating and staring with wide eyes at the people all around him.

“Stop them, stop them now.” Dean growled, and the woman had the sense to back off, gesturing for the people to do the same. She beckoned him to follow, and Dean ushered his mate inside a tent, shoving him to the ground. He gripped his wing joint, like he had before, when they were younger, and demanded his attention. Cas was still breathing fast, much too fast, and Dean rubbed his thumb into the joint, shushing him and rocking him gently. He hugged him close, careful not to squeeze Girl between them, and kissed his brow, whispering to him softly, calming him.

“We’re inside now, it’s okay, they can’t get to you here. Does your wing hurt? I’m so sorry, should never have forced you to do that…”

Cas huffed against his cheek, whining low in his throat and pushing harder against his mate. They sat frozen like that for a long while, and the woman had enough sense to leave them as they were, didn’t interrupt. She came and went, passing through the opening flap as silently as she came what felt like hours later. She touched Dean’s shoulder and he jerked, grunting in surprise and his grip tightened on his blade.

“I just have food for you both, and milk for the little one.” She said, head bowed, and everything about this felt wrong, totally and utterly wrong.

“Who are you?” Dean rasped. She looked at him, then at Cas who had fallen asleep on the fur covered floor, and beckoned him to follow as she went back outside. Dean felt confusion and fear roar through his ears in the pounding of his own heart. He exited the tent and immediately five or so children scurried away, squealing and laughing.

“I have…questions, I…” Dean stammered, looking around at the small village, at the people around him. This was no fishing village; these were no hardened country folk. He recognized some of the insignias emblazoned on some of the tents, on most of the kettles and pots and blankets hung up to dry in the crisp wind. He recognized them from several of his own belongings, his own childhood blanket that his father had given him, saying that it had been his when he was younger. They matched the symbols on his father’s sword. It flashed in his mind now, clear as day.

“Where are we?” He asked instead, reeling, “Who are you people?”

 

“But that still doesn’t explain why you’re looking for him now, after all these years.” Sam said, clutching a steaming mug of tea close to ward off the chill. Gabriel was again buried under his furs after Sam’s coaxing, and he took a liberal sip of the hot beverage before continuing.

“As I said before, Castiel is the Prince. He’s the illegitimate son of the previous Emperor, as the Ministers would call it, an Unholy birth. I’m sure he has many names in the Basilica now, most likely all less than flattering.” Gabriel muttered loathingly, taking another sip. “But as it stands, he’s the only flesh and blood left from the Emperor. His half-brother, Michael, was born of the same father, but after he had already nullified the throne. He couldn’t live out the rest of his days in _scandal_ , he had to abdicate. So, Michael was born, truly legitimate and everything, but with no legacy, no title to his cause.”

“So what you’re saying is, if Cas— _Castiel_ —ever learned about this…he could just march into the Empire and demand his birthright?” Sam frowned.

“He very well could, but after everything Michael has done about him, after everything Michael has said about him, he wouldn’t even make it a yard into that place. Michael established himself in the Basilica early in his years, studying, under numerous apprenticeships with prominent Ministers. He was the darling of the Empire, till of course his heritage was discovered. Disgraced, Michael made it his sole purpose in life to usurp the throne and sully Castiel’s memory, who, at that point in time, was practically made a saint.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well everyone knew the story of the Unholy Prince and his treacherous escape from the palace guard, how the remains of his ship drifted up on the river bank miles away, in blackened, burnt ruins. Wonderful story, I tell you,” Gabriel laughed, chugging the rest of his tea, “though half of it’s a load of horse shit.”

“How do you know all this? I assume you stayed away from the Empire…”

“Oh I did, for about three or so years, then I wandered back. I wasn’t so recognizable without the…” He gestured to his back, “well, you know. Anyway, people weren’t as tight-lipped then as they are now. Castiel was the talk of the streets, he was. His story had been blown so out of proportion he’d become less of an actual person and more of a symbol, a message to the people. He had become the patron of the downtrodden; I’ve literally heard the poor praying to him for guidance, can you believe it?”

“And now?” Sam asked, leaning back in his seat.

“Now…Now it’s against the law to even speak his name.”

“How on earth did they manage that? It’s not like you can just suddenly forbid people from worshipping God, could you?”

“Rumors work more miracles than faith. Michael attempted every dirty trick in the book to sully Castiel’s name, he even had the previous Emperor’s likeness struck from the very walls. He twisted their faith around to the point where Castiel became the symbol for treachery and sin. He has, in a sense, become the devil in their faith.”

“And after all this, Michael still fears that Castiel will return?”

“As with all faith, there is doubt. And humans are fickle things,” Gabriel replied cryptically, staring into the fire. Sam rubbed his eyes and glanced at the small clock on the mantle, it was past midnight. Such a tale should have sent Sam into bouts of laughter, the very thought of it alone was almost cause to toss the man out on the porch and call it a night. But there was no denying the scars on Gabriel’s back, nor the presence of Cas—Castiel’s—wings, his silence…All the pieces fit. He was a fool to think that such a unique being as Castiel would thrive in their little wintery bubble and never be bothered with the outside world. They had all lived in such a fantasy, their father included. Running from the Empire was not a plausible option. It was everywhere, all the time, even before it became known that Castiel was close by. In his heart Sam ached for everything to return to as it was, before their father died, before Castiel had been locked away in the basement like some temperamental mutt, before Dean turned sour and silent.

 

It had been a long time since Dean had seen Cas in civilized clothes, not since that day so long ago when he had been plucked and thawed from the snow. He hadn’t worn a thing created by other hands, always preferring the skins and weaves he made himself. Now he made quite a regal sight, clad in rich white robes, though he wore them with obvious disdain. He growled and plucked Girl from the hands of the young woman who had helped dress him and reset his wing. Girl squealed in obvious delight and his stony expression faltered for mere moments before he silenced her and trudged back to their tent. The day had been rough on Cas and Dean both.

“He must learn of his birth-right,” the woman had begun, clutching Dean’s arm when he tried to shoo her away. He had stayed awake the entire night, watching over his mate and child in their fitful slumber.

“Come off it,” Dean had snarled, jerking his arm from her bony grasp, “I know enough, and he doesn’t need to know.”

“Obviously you do not, foreigner, or you would not have brought him this far north!” She hissed, and Dean paused.

“What does that have to do with anything? We’re too far away from the Empire for it to matter anyway. I haven’t seen a scout in weeks.”

“Because you have undoubtedly been travelling through the forest, the soldiers have started patrolling the river,” she said, motioning to the lazily churning snake of water at the edge of camp, “and are headed down this way as we speak.”

“We’ll be long gone before they get here,” Dean said, frowning at the river. He had intended to follow the riverside for a few days to gain his bearings, but now that didn’t seem like an option. It wouldn’t be much trouble; Cas could easily find them a route in the forest again. Cas relied on the stars and the position of the heavenly bodies, he did not rely on nature to point the way. Nature…she could be a _tricky_ thing.

“You will stay for as long as Castiel’s wing needs to heal,” the woman stated with a sense of finality that Dean did not like.

“ _Cas_ is leaving with me at first light tomorrow morning, do not attempt to persuade me otherwise.” He growled. Dean did not appreciate the way the woman and the others referred to his mate by Castiel. That was not his name. His name was Cas, and he was Dean’s as much as Dean was his.

Dean stalked back to their tent, thinking over when they could leave. That old crone seemed hell-bent on keeping them in the encampment for as long as possible. That wouldn’t do. They couldn’t possibly stay for long, it was too risky. The people here seemed to almost…worship Cas. While he was here, they said they were safe, but Dean wasn’t so sure. It wasn’t right the way they were looking at them, at them both. And he knew the looks they gave he and Girl were less than kind. They loved Cas, but they despised Dean and his nameless spawn.

He pushed the tent flap back and saw Cas leaning on his side, feeding Girl and smiling softly. He looked up momentarily with a frown before relaxing, seeing it was only Dean. Not even Cas trusted these people, in fact he was damned uncomfortable around them.

“Tonight, we leave tonight.”

Cas nodded, bundling Girl in his furs. He had already changed back into his own clothes, and Dean noticed the robes he had worn earlier were piled into the fire, crackling and blackening and curling.

 

“We can’t go after them, you’re talking suicide!” Sam gasped, attempting to rise and stop Gabriel’s frantic running about. The man had got it in his head that they would have to follow them and stop them from reaching the Empire.

“They have no idea what they’re getting themselves into! It’s our duty to follow them, to put a stop to this…”

“Gabriel!” Sam snarled, effectively halting the other man’s movements. “This won’t be a stroll through some palace garden…this is the far north we’re talking about. Only Dean, Cas, and our father ever dared hunt that far. It’s dangerous, not to mention the fact that we aren’t even prepared for such a journey. We don’t have the equipment, we don’t have the clothes, the supplies, enough food to last us…We have _nothing_ , Gabriel. We just need to wait this out. For all we know they could be on their way back home as we speak.”

“And if they aren’t?!” Gabriel fired back, equally enraged. “Are you telling me to lay idle while Michael may already have my…have Castiel in custody? And what of Dean? He is a wildsman to them…a _savage_. They will put him down like a _dog_ , Sam.”

Sam grimaced. It was true, his brother was almost as bad with people as Cas was, and wouldn’t take too kindly to being imprisoned without cause. They would _have_ to kill him. He could imagine it now; his brother, beaten and bloody dragged through the streets of the Empire in chains, being spat on and jeered at like some sort of animal. He couldn’t bear the thought. And Cas…his fate would be much worse. They were both silent, socially awkward; Cas was…he believed he was a creature, not a man.

“We have to find them,” Gabriel reiterated, stopping in front of Sam who still sat numb in his seat by the fireplace. Sam nodded dumbly and stood, towering over the small man but he could tell that Gabriel had long since become used to his shorter stature. “Come on,” Gabriel muttered, patting his shoulder, “Let’s go get our boys back.”

 

Dean snorted awake in the middle of the night. He didn’t wake up because it was too hot or cold—their fire had dimmed to comfortably warm coals and embers—and he hadn’t heard any noise. Something nudged his front and he frowned, grunting sleepily when he propped himself up on an elbow and rubbed his eyes with the back of his other hand. He looked down and saw Girl, half out of her wrappings, crawling around the fire pit, gurgling happily. Dean looked across the tent with a scowl, seeing Cas curled up on his side, extended arm achingly empty and cold where Girl normally burrowed late at night. Dean sighed and scratched at the back of his head, pursing his lips. Cas kept Girl close because he knew what Dean was loath to admit even to himself that he wanted nothing to do with her. Normally Cas did a good job keeping her away from him, and as far as Dean could tell Girl didn’t even view him as a parental figure, but there were still nights like this when Girl scrabbled out of his arms and crawled to Dean’s side. He grimaced when she cooed up at his face, smiling like a little idiot and he couldn’t help but grin at her. She was a fool, just like her daddy.

Dean heard a soft cry from across the embers and he looked up. Cas was regarding him with wide, panicked eyes. He stared at Girl, mouth agape, then back to Dean, and Dean could see just how tense he was. Cas actually thought he was going to _hurt_ her. He didn’t know whether to be surprised or offended.

“It’s okay, Cas…” Dean murmured, voice a guttural rumble, thick with sleep. He tapped at Girl’s fingers and she smiled at him. He drew her close and wrapped her up again, it wouldn’t do to have her freeze to death in the night. In his peripheral Dean could see Cas still as tense as ever, but he was determined to show Cas that he wanted a part in this, that Girl was a fact in their life now, and he wouldn’t abandon her.

“See?” Dean said, pulling her against his chest as he curled up on his side to shelter her with his body. Cas trilled quietly, shuffling as close as the embers and his wings would allow, close enough to lay a calloused, scarred hand over Dean’s. He pulled it to his lips and kissed Dean’s knuckles, each one, and breathed over his fingers till he relaxed and soon fell asleep, Dean’s hand still in his. Dean sighed and looked back down at Girl, who was also asleep. Her hair was growing in, and it was turning darker than his. She would have Lisa’s midnight tresses, of that he was certain.

He tried to fall back asleep, but the unfamiliar noises of the camp kept him awake; the squealing of others’ infants, the rushing of the river water that was a deafening thrum, a few dogs that barked and howled at something in the night but were silenced with a quick reprimand from their owner, the sounds of insects that were still so alien to his ears. Everything was different by the river, and already far different than their peace in their cabin by the lake. Things were changing, both in the air and in their hearts, and Dean was hesitant to see where it led them.

 

Sam woke to screams and protests. He lurched from the bed when his door was kicked in, splinters flew and armored men poured in, pointing rifles at his head. As with every high stress situation that Sam had experienced in his life, he couldn’t exactly tell what was going on till he was tossed out of his own house and barked at continuously by the gunmen to stay on the ground. He looked around with a vague sense of fear and saw Gabriel, also kneeling on the ground. He didn’t look particularly worried, then again he hadn’t been the one harassed by these people for weeks now. They remained there, kneeling in the snow, for what felt like hours while Sam watched countless soldiers rip through his cabin, tearing it apart, searching…for what he had a pretty good idea now that Gabriel had shown up at his front porch. He heard his mother screaming from upstairs and he twitched, and immediately felt the cool steel of a rifle barrel against his brow.

“Move, forester,” the soldier chuckled, “go on.”

The rifle struck his forehead and he grunted, falling to the side. He tensed, but he wasn’t stupid, he wasn’t like his brother, or even worse, like Cas. He remained completely still on the ground, watching the soldiers throw items from the windows, saw them raid their food stores and pocket his mother’s old jewelry. Blood trickled into his eye and he hissed, blinking fiercely. A handkerchief was tossed in front of his face and he saw Gabriel watching the soldiers as well, with no small amount of hatred. He took the offered cloth with muttered thanks and dabbed at the cut on his head.

“They’re not gonna find what they’re looking for…” Sam murmured so only Gabriel could hear.

“Won’t stop them from trying,” he snorted, “besides, judging from what you told me, I think they’re running low on time and patience with you.”

“It’s not my fault my brother figured all this out and left on his own!” Sam hissed, pausing for a moment as a soldier walked by, scuffing snow and mud onto his thigh, but he thought nothing of it. “I wish he would have told me, at least where he was headed, that way we wouldn’t be in this mess.”

“What, you would have told the soldiers?”

“No! I would have followed his sorry ass and went with them.”

“Hey! Stop talking!” The same soldier from before struck Sam again, this time on the shoulder. Sam grunted in annoyance but fell silent. When the man walked away again Gabriel leaned in close, voice a conspiring whisper.

“What we do now, though, is the question…”

He leaned away when more guards poured out of the house, talking angrily amongst themselves and periodically sending Sam and Gabriel dirty looks while his mother screamed away from her attic rooms. He overheard their leader speaking of extradition, about bringing Sam and Gabriel back to the Empire to speak for their crimes. They would have to go into the town first for supplies and information. Gabriel whispered to just let it happen, let them take them, he had enough contacts in the Basilica, they could escape then. Sam merely nodded, eyes not once leaving his cabin, even when it went up in flames.

 

Cas woke slowly, like the time he fell in the lake when he was young and John pulled him up. He could feel the water against his skin like hands pulling, dragging him back down into the depths. If only he had drowned.

Things had become…complicated. Much too complicated for him to muster out himself, and he couldn’t exactly ask Dean to tell him what the hell was happening. He didn’t like the strange people in the camp, and was glad Dean wanted to leave early, but they had planted the seed of doubt in his mind. Why would they treat him in such a way? Why look upon his wings with awe, and _fear_? He smelled their fear over the stench of fish. It stank and clawed into his head till it kept its home there. Now he feared.

Dean had shook his shoulder, holding a finger to his lips, as if he had to do that, and set about packing the rest of their scattered belongings. Cas whirred gently as he stirred, noticing Dean had already tied Girl’s sling across his chest, and Girl was nestled in a fur by the door, still fast asleep. Cas breathed deep and rubbed at his eyes, waking himself up. Dean handed him a piece of squirrel jerky he had already bit off of and Cas accepted it, tearing at the meat and chewing, grateful for the nourishment and the distraction. They packed quickly, quietly, and efficiently, till it seemed as if no one had ever set foot in the tent before them. Cas bent and scooped up Girl, who murmured softly in her sleep but thankfully did not stir.

He left the tent first. The moon was still fat in the sky, though paled by the coming morn, and already the ink retreated to the far corners of the world to welcome the hazy blue of dawn. The camp was quiet, the dogs Dean had heard earlier were nowhere to be seen, and Cas couldn’t sense anything afoot, so they prayed for continued silence and set out on foot. They kept to the outskirts of the camp, trailing along the riverside, and not once did they see a living soul. Cas couldn’t even hear the screams of infants. It was far too quiet.

Dean hissed in warning and ducked behind a tent, signaling for him to do the same. Cas hid behind the tent to the left, tucking his wings in as close as he could manage, then peered around the edge, alarmed by what he saw.

Rows of men with rifles stood silent, waiting it seemed for some silent signal. They wore strange coverings of metal plates adorned with regalia that he felt like he should have recognized. The rifles were fixed with small knives at the ends, bayonets…and immediately he felt the fear tighten its hold. They were here for him, there was no doubt in his mind now. His wings made him different, special, so special the old woman wanted to keep him hidden away in their camp so no other could see. They were why Dean said they could never go home. It was all about him.

“Where is he?!” Cas heard the one in front yell. He wore more coverings than the others, and sat atop a white horse that also wore plated coverings, which couldn’t have been too comfortable for the poor thing, or that light.

Another soldier kicked the old woman between her shoulder blades and she fell to her hands and knees, begging with them to let them be in peace, that there was no one here they sought. Cas winced in sympathy when the soldier kicked her again. She cried out in agony, and Cas knew the sound. The pain was too much for her frail old bones, she wouldn’t last much longer. He keened but Dean ran to his side, holding him still by his wing.

“We need to leave _right now_ …” Dean hissed. Despite not owing them a thing, Cas was reluctant to leave the refugees behind, captive. He shook his head, still staring at the riflemen as they branched out around the camp, kicking over pots, torching tents, _looking_ for something.

“ _Now_ , Cas!”

“Hey!”

Cas jerked and looked around the tent; two soldiers were headed in their direction. They ran. They ran down the shore and Dean’s breaths were quick and panicked when he looked next to them, at the water and then the forest and mountains to their left, beyond the river. There was a canoe tied to the shore straight ahead, and Dean grimaced when he jerked Cas to it and shoved him down onto the old wood. Cas protested loudly when he saw the soldiers running after them, gaining on them, he grasped at Dean’s shoulders, trying to drag him in with him, but Dean waded into the water, pushing the canoe, giving it one last kick and the current caught it. He threw the paddle at Cas who caught it easily, but cried out when Dean was restrained by the men.

“Run Cas! You run and you do _not_ look back!” Dean screamed, fighting the soldiers, shoving them into the freezing water, snapping their necks and fingers and arms, snarling and biting and clawing. A soldier approached the canoe and Cas swung the heavy paddle in a wide arc, hitting him somewhere between his jaw and his cheekbone, he fell and didn’t resurface. The river ran red. Cas paddled with heavy strokes, whining when Girl woke and screamed against his chest, vocalizing what he himself could not. Soldiers were running along the riverside, shouting at him to come ashore, pointing their guns at him, but he kept paddling. Dean tore after them, roaring and shooting and killing, the sounds of shots rang through the rush of water, Dean was red all over, all Cas could see was red and he wanted to scream at Dean to run, that they were safe in the water. But Dean kept going, kept fighting, they were going to kill him or he them.

A shot rang out, Dean stopped, Cas screamed. He felt the sound rip through his throat, mangling it, tearing it to pieces; he heard it form into something terrible that dredged the water from the bottom of the sea like a wave, like the strike of an anvil, breaking the rock in twain, it formed the jagged, torn edges of his mate’s name and it echoed in the hollows of his skull. They drifted around the river bend, Cas couldn’t see Dean fall.

 


	2. Wilderness

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Part 2 of this year's DCBB~

**Part II: Wilderness**

_Wilderness was fluid as water, clinging tight with a pressure that, when released, could render its prey drunk and dumb. Years went by, months went by, days, hours, minutes, seconds, and yet Dean’s separation played over and over in Cas’s eyes as clear as crystal as he wandered. They shot him, like a man putting down a rabid dog. Dean was not dead, Cas didn’t feel him die, he still saw his life when he walked backwards in the stars and heavenly bodies, but it was as if he was. The sun shone too brightly, the birds too cheerful, the green of the earth too fertile…he was going west. He had never been lost before, but now he was. He was lost forever with a girl that was not his and a newfound voice that belonged to Dean and Dean alone. He had words now, words he did not want. Words meant he was no longer an animal and he was no longer dumb. There were advantages to being dumb, but now he was human._

-o-

With the Empire’s technology, it was simple to heal the forester man his soldiers brought back. He was an alluring creature, large yet his bulk was like a rock in the riverbed, made smooth by the current but still just as strong. He had not yet seen his eyes, but he imagined them to be a forest green to match his homeland. His skin was dark from days spent under the sun and in the reflective snow, and his numerous freckles were made darker as well. His lips, though…Michael wondered over those lips, pondered over them for hours as he sat by the man’s bedside with a guard just outside the door. He touched them, numerous times. He traced his fingertips over the rosy flesh and sometimes—if he was daring enough—he dipped them into the slack jawed mouth. His teeth were smooth, white and straight, and his tongue…Michael shuddered over the things he could make the man do with that tongue.

He highly anticipated the day the man woke. He couldn’t wait to interrogate him, to… _learn_ him. Michael would learn from him, just as the man would learn from Michael. Michael was going to be the ruler of the Empire; no one would deny him his right to the man. As far as he was concerned, the forester was a spoil of conquest, and as such, his property. He would mold the forester into the perfect possession, he would and no one would stop him. That was, of course, after he discovered the truth about what exactly happened by the river that day.

His soldiers had said the winged man spoke, which should have been impossible if he were truly the Unholy Prince. Almost all of the soldiers there that day swore that he spoke. He only said one word, rather unintelligible under the sound of the river and gunshot, but a word nonetheless.

Had he been mistaken? Could he have not been the Prince? He had wings, he was of the proper age…but there were plenty of winged bastards running around in the Empire to this day. He could easily be the unfortunate offspring of some lowly minister’s daughter and one of his foolish cousins. Perhaps…but he would not call off the hunt on a hunch. Simply because this search did not pan out did not mean future searches would not.

The day the man woke it had been raining, the skies were thick with heavy clouds, and the people were sure another wet season was upon them. But when the man opened his eyes, revealing the brightest green Michael had ever seen, the rain stopped as abruptly as it had started. The clouds rolled out with a strong western breeze and the sun beat down onto the Basilica’s tiled streets brighter than ever before as it baked away the damp. It was a good sign.

The man worked his mouth, lips smacking and sticking, he must have been parched. He gazed around the room, not yet seeing Michael, yet he saw the tall glass of water waiting perched at his bedside table. He reached for it, painfully slow, and would have knocked it over if Michael hadn’t intervened. He plastered on his best disarming smile when the man licked his lips and regarded him with wide, panicked eyes. Michael could get lost in those eyes. They were fathomless, ethereal. He was unused to seeing such a color in the Empire; he wanted to keep it all to himself.

“Do you know where you are?” Michael asked softly, frowning in a—what he hoped to be—concerned manner. The man shook his head, opting to ignore his gaze to settle on the sweating glass of water still in Michael’s hand.

“Can you tell me your name?”

The man was almost whining for it, but Michael stubbornly held the glass away. The man would learn swiftly enough that he would be rewarded if he followed commands. It was simple, and it was all Michael would ask of him. Obey. He opened his mouth and seemed to struggle for a moment before he coughed and tried again.

“My…my name is Dean,” he broke off to cough for a moment, and continued, “Dean Winchester. May I please have some water?”

His voice was a curious drawl that couldn’t possibly be masked by his rough and cracked throat. It was thick, southern, yet…not. He was south of the border, definitely, but just enough to not be considered northern. His soldiers had dragged him back from a refugee camp by the Great River, just south of the border. He wore the clothes of a traveler and certainly did not belong with the pampered party of deserters by the river. Still such a mystery he was, one Michael was eager to explore. Dean was still looking up at him hopefully and Michael nodded, smiling again.

“Of course, Dean.” He placed the glass against Dean’s cracked lips and raised it ever so slightly so the cool water could trickle into his mouth easily.

“My name is Michael, but you must call me ‘Lord Michael’ or ‘your grace’, understood?”

“Yes, Lord Michael…” Dean murmured. Already the drugs were taking hold, making him sluggish in mind and body. There would be ample opportunity to see Dean at his peak of physical movement and power later. The drugs would loosen his tongue enough for interrogation and loosen his body enough for conditioning. It saved him the trouble of breaking him. He never liked to do it himself, and professionals he had hired in the past seemed to like breaking his slaves’ bodies rather than their minds. That wouldn’t do, not with this one.

Dean sighed and let his head fall back onto the pillow when the glass of drugged water was finished. His emerald eyes were half-lidded in obvious contentment and he smiled lazily up at Michael as he stretched his body. He was naked, a fact anyone aware enough would instantly notice in the presence of another man. The lines of his body weren’t well concealed by the thin cream colored sheet and Michael allowed his eyes to wander.

“Thank you, your grace.”

Michael smiled and chuckled to himself when Dean gasped at his touch. He had placed a hand over Dean’s shoulder, rubbing, soothing the sore, newly regrown muscle. Michael may have introduced him to a small dosage of aphrodisiac as well, just to be sure. Michael prided himself in being thorough. Dean must have had a predisposition for sex, there was no other explanation for the noises he was making. They got under Michael’s skin and echoed there. He uttered half whined sighs that were short and almost panted when Michael caressed him harder. Michael still had the presence of mind to stop; he couldn’t take his slave now, he would have to wait till he got what he wanted from him first. Dean writhed so prettily against the cream fabric, panting harsher now, his breaths sounding reedy like air whistling through a metal pipe. He was half hard under the sheet, and Michael was tempted, oh so tempted, to partake. But he left him alone. He stood and left the room and it took more will power than he thought he possessed.

“No one is to enter this room, understood?” Michael snarled to the guard outside, who simply nodded, yet snuck a peek inside. Dean certainly was a rare creature in the Basilica, a thing of raw, vulnerable and bare beauty. Both women and men in the Basilica relied on face paints and makeups and elaborate costumes of clothing to achieve anything close to what Dean held, naked and freshly washed as he was. Michael sat through two minister sessions, not absorbing anything they told him, thoughts only on green eyes and golden freckled skin, and winged bastard sons.

 

It hurt Sam to learn how the townspeople disliked both himself and his kin. He and Gabriel were dragged into the town like a spectacle, and they were greeted with jeers and shouted slurs and hate from the men and women both, children tried to throw refuse at them but thankfully the soldiers shooed them away before they could.

“Where is my daughter, you monster?!” Lisa’s mother screamed from the roadside, clawing and fighting against her husband and the soldiers who held her back. Her husband was stone-faced and pale, staring spitefully at Sam as he was pulled by.

‘ _It wasn’t me!_ ’ Sam wanted to scream at them, ‘ _Dean and Cas took her, I don’t know where she is now!_ ’ But Sam would not take a side against his brothers, he couldn’t.

“Where is she?! Your brother planted the seed of the devil in her and stole her away; you give her back to me!”

Gabriel squeezed his arm as best he could and Sam ducked his head in shame. He truthfully did not know what became of Lisa, or his brothers. How he prayed he knew now.

“Townspeople!” The leader of the soldiers yelled from a raised step in the center of the town square. “We, the militia of the Empire under the royal command of his grace, Lord Michael, take this town as land of the Empire and heretofore take its possessions and goods for the Empire’s usage. You may go about your business; if your services are required you will be called upon. That is all.”

The people grumbled in complaint, but they were used to the Empire’s displays of territorial power. Everyone was, Sam assumed. The Braedens were the last to go, led away by the soldiers when they refused to leave on their own. Sam and Gabriel were left with the horses, bound, awaiting their fate.

“What is going to happen to us?” Sam asked sullenly, already quite resigned to his fate.

“They’ll bring us to the Empire…I think…” Gabriel mused, keeping a wary eye on the soldiers surrounding them. “We’re still of some use to them, you being the son of a former Saint and all…and my ancestry will undoubtedly be revealed soon. I can clip my wings off, but…genes are genes. I look too much like my father.”

Sam nodded. The fact that his father used to serve the Empire was probably the only thing keeping him from under the sword.

“Besides,” Gabriel continued, “you’re well educated, they could hardly dispose of a great mind like yours. The Empire is constantly looking for young souls to mold to its will.”

“I will not yield.” Sam hissed.

“Good,” Gabriel said, eyes twinkling.

 

“They say there are wolves where you lived, Dean,” Michael said one evening, lavishing in his chambers as Dean patted his body with a soft cloth, drying him from their earlier bath.

“Yes, my lord,” Dean replied softly, straddling Michael’s hips to reach his other shoulder easier. Michael chuckled and rolled his hips, loving the soft gasp that spilled from his slave’s lips.

“Have you ever killed one before?”

“No…though I have seen them.”

“I think I shall call you my wolf, what do you think? Like a wolf, you are a creature as rare and as fine, here, in the north.”

Dean had long since stopped drying his body.

“Whatever—ah!—whatever pleases your grace…”

Michael slipped into his willing body with ease, his opening still stretched and wet from their time in the baths, filled and almost leaking with his lord’s fluids. Dean sunk onto his rigid member slowly, with a grace Michael thought him incapable. Yes, Dean was truly accustomed to sex, to being taken as he was. Dean’s soft cries and the sound of flesh slapping flesh filled Michael’s chambers and he loved it, how every time he drove balls deep into his slave the man’s eyes seemed to blaze with a lustful flame and he rode him harder than before. What Michael didn’t like, however, was how Dean would look _through_ him in those moments, as if he were seeing someone else, far away.

Michael snarled and flipped them, pulling out and thrusting back in harder as he did so. He pinned Dean to the bed and rode him harsher than he ever had before, growling at every snap of his hips. He held his slave’s arm down, immobilizing him completely with the other pinned underneath him, and curled a hand around the man’s throat. Choked stutters of Michael’s title, then his own name fell upon deaf ears as he drove harder and harder. His slave was no longer aroused, his cock nestled limp in its bed of still wet curls, and that alone made Michael take pause.

“Do you not appreciate my attentions, mutt?”

“N-no! Lord Michael please, I could not breathe…” His wolf’s voice was raw and cracked, deeper perhaps than Michael’s at that point.

“Be gone from my sight, I’ll deal with you in the ‘morrow.” Michael sneered, detracting himself from the slave’s body, not missing the wet squelch from his slave’s opening and his soft, dejected whimper.

“I shall leave, my lord, and I apologize…” Dean murmured as he rose from the bed and, despite the abuse his body took, stood straight and proud. Michael glanced at him petulantly, taking in his demure expression and downward cast eyes. His hands were clasped behind his body, like he had been trained to do, revealing himself for his lord’s scrutiny.

“Wait,” Michael sighed, “I have not been properly dried yet, stay with me a while longer.”

Dean nodded eagerly and slipped back onto the large bed, taking up the cloth from where it had been forgotten earlier and continued patting Michael’s body dry. The lord hummed in contentment and shut his eyes, enjoying his slave’s gentle yet firm handling. The first time Michael had him do this the slave was too heavily drugged and could hardly lift the cloth, too content to nuzzle into his lord’s flesh instead, lapping at the beads of water with his tongue, lazily humping against his leg like a bitch in heat. Michael couldn’t tell which version of his slave he enjoyed more, but as Dean hummed a song under his breath and began to caress Michael’s skin with his now soft hands…he found he enjoyed a lucid slave far more than a drugged one.

 

Dean wished he was truly a wolf, so that he could rip into Michael’s throat, tear it and bathe in his blood. He fought to keep his breathing and his voice clear of waver as he massaged his captor’s body. Michael was as vicious as Dean had imagined him, and far more offhandedly cruel in bed than in court. It was no secret that Michael enjoyed his reciprocations, and Dean fought his better nature to tend to his owner’s body. He was owned now, fully and truly. The only thing separating him from the dogs in the stables was the bed he slept in and the lack of a collar around his throat, a visible one anyway. Dean, already so privy to what gave his lord pleasure, leaned forward and lapped at the younger man’s neck, tasting the bath salts and oils and the man’s own distinct flavor. It was nothing like Cas’s. The man’s hands came forward and cradled his ass, kneading the flesh, alternating between gentle strokes and harsh pinches. Dean bit back a snarl, turning it into something resembling a moan and he pushed himself down Michael’s body. Michael could so easily be swayed by pleasure it bordered on pathetic.

The man was a pig, Dean couldn’t wait to snap his neck in his sleep, but he had not yet earned the right to share a bed with him, let alone the room. He slept with the other slaves, and without Michael’s knowledge he had been shared around by the guards like some common street whore. Dean morbidly hoped he had caught something from them and it would pass onto Michael through their frequent couplings. He was surprised the overly possessive man hadn’t noticed it yet. There was no possible way Dean could have been so stretched and wet after only one coupling that day. Michael was a fool.

Dean always drew upon what Cas used to do to him, he was always more skilled when it came to matters of the tongue, and he tried to copy it. He remembered how Cas would nuzzle against his engorged flesh, breathing deeply and hotly over his length, licking at it like a child with a treat. Dean caught himself moaning in remembered pleasure, but he stopped himself. He would not become aroused for this monster. Almost as soon as Dean sucked him into his mouth, Michael exploded hot and wet down his throat. He swallowed it all as it came, obedient like the dog he was. He could pretend with Michael, it was easy. He just had to last long enough without letting his act slip.

Not even his drugged actions were real. Living in the wild with Cas as long as he had, building up an immunity against most of the natural world’s toxins had been a fortunate consequence, and he had been taught to recognize the scent and appearance of poisons and aphrodisiacs. He knew their side-effects as well. Michael underestimated his past. Foresters from beyond the Empire were not to be handled lightly.

 

It was two years before the soldiers decided to set back to the Empire. Following the main road, Sam calculated, would take even longer than the wait. He had seen his father’s map before, still marked from the man’s journey southward. John hadn’t stopped for long at the Empire outposts, too focused on fleeing than resting. But Sam knew these men were determined to stall their return to the Empire as long as possible. The two years spent waiting in the town hadn’t been too difficult for Sam and Gabriel, so long as they kept their heads down, didn’t wander, and didn’t ask for too much.

Either the soldiers forgot their reason for being there in the first place or they simply didn’t care. Sam and Gabriel were prisoners, yes, but they weren’t treated poorly, they were ignored more often than not; which allowed Sam to eavesdrop on conversations that probably should have been confidential.

“Did you hear about the southern mutt Lord Michael got himself?”

“Aye, a pretty little thing, I heard. His grace won’t let any soul touch him; butchers anyone who dares.”

“Ha! Wonder what’s between the lad’s nethers what’s got our lord so transfixed.”

“You’re dreaming if you think Lord Michael lets the wolf on top. Only one thing to do with a little bitch like that…”

The two trailed off into lecherous laughter, falling to silence for a few more moments.

“What was the wolf’s name again?” The first soldier asked.

“Why do you ask, man? Wishing to woo the mutt into your bedchambers come our return?” The other laughed it off before finally replying, “The bitch said his name was Dean, Dean Wincher…Wester, something like that.”

Sam bristled and his restraints clinked and groaned under his struggles. His brother, his older, _precious_ brother, had been taken by the Empire’s tyrant ruler. Gabriel had heard as well, and laid a warning hand against Sam’s shoulder, trying to stop him. Sam glared at him and nearly growled in suppressed hatred. He had never had any reason to hate the Empire till then, and the thought frightened him. What had happened to Cas? To Lisa, and the child? So much time had passed, the child was sure to be walking, talking, and without a father now. If Dean was with the mock emperor, then Cas was sure to be dead. There was no way Cas would allow Dean to be taken, Sam knew, Cas would kill them both together if that was what it came to.

But now he knew he had been taken, and without mention of Cas, or a child. And the way the men were speaking of him, such language, so openly crass and crude it left only one thing to mind. Dean had been taken for slavery of the flesh. He was to be the plaything of some highborn lord till the man tired of him, or worse, Dean would succumb to a disease or over usage. Dean may have been his brother, but he had seen he and Cas in the throes of pleasure, and knew why a highborn man would take interest in him. He and Cas had forged their sensual bond at an early age, they had seen it in each other before anyone else. Sam wanted to believe that Cas was alive, he did, but again, the mere fact that Dean was in the hands of another man was proof enough. Either Cas was dead, or he was too far away to take his mate back into the folds of his wings and arms.

 

“Papa! Papa, where did you go?”

Cas grunted and sloshed to the shore, taking his time to hang their clothes and damning his decision to teach Girl to speak. It had been a learning experience for them both. He flapped his wings once or twice to air them, fanning them out in the sun, humming when the warmth seeped to his very bones. His joints and pinions creaked and rubbed against each other, his age was making itself known in his bones but his skin still refused to show it.

“Here, Girl, water.” He called into the woods, keeping a wary eye on the tree line. They couldn’t afford to be so loud, they weren’t in a place that liked noise, Cas could tell. Girl melted from the dark, appearing at the edge of the sandy banks. She had grown quickly, wilderness demanded it of her, and did not look the four years she possessed. She had a bony figure—she had her mother to thank for that—and long tangles of black hair that Cas attempted time after time to cut off when it became too much to handle. She had kicked his knife away and had nearly broken his fingers for his trouble. Her favorite article of clothing was the wolf’s head hood and cloak Cas made her for her third birthday, she wore it every day since, and it was looking particularly pathetic at that point. Cas would have to make her another.

“Papa, where are we going?”  

“West, child.”

“I know west, but why? What is west?”

“Does not concern you.”

“It concerns me! I go with you!”

Cas smiled to himself, so familiar with the line of conversation that it didn’t alarm him anymore.

“I leave you, let moose raise you.”

She wrinkled her little button nose when she sat next to him on a rock.

“No mooses here, I would be raised by wolf.”

He hummed thoughtfully and she laughed, a bright tinkling noise that still calmed him no matter the situation, no matter what he was doing or feeling.

“Papa, who is Dean?”

Cas froze in the middle of folding a shirt.

“What makes you say that name?”

“You say it when you’re quiet at night, when your eyes are closed and you’re supposed to be sleeping but you’re not.”

He knew of what she spoke. His star walks became more and more frequent the further west he went, the further away from Dean he went.

“Never say it again.”

She protested when he packed away their clothes and stamped out their fire in a flurry of dark emotion. He missed the days when he had no words and his actions were loud enough.

“But papa, who is he?”

“No!” He shouted, grabbing her shoulder and shoving her to the ground, sitting her there while he finished packing the camp. “No,” he repeated, “do not talk.”

She hiccupped but didn’t speak again. Cas had taught her well. When he was too angry for speech, he learned quickly that Girl didn’t know what was happening to him, tried to talk to him, and that would anger him more till he almost did leave her, once. It was a shameful memory, he would never leave her, couldn’t…so he made sure to teach her about his time before words. Sometimes, he had told her, he needed someone as silent as he had been. He didn’t tell her that before he was with Dean, and silence was his game. Now he had nothing, he had no reason to speak yet he could.

He sighed and patted Girl’s head softly, rubbing her cheek in apology. She pouted up at him, but he could see the beginnings of a smile twinkle in her youthful eyes. He nudged her back and she jumped up to help him pack the rest of their things. They draped the remainder of their still drying clothes along the high bow of their canoe and set out onto the river. In the past, Cas held an aversion to deep water. That day in his childhood still stuck firm in his mind, and falling in and drowning was not something he particularly desired. But this river wasn’t deep at all. At its midpoint he could stand and the rushing water would merely reach his chest. He could keep his wings up, outstretched behind him, and he could keep them from becoming waterlogged, the thing that had doomed him before.

The further they went, the sparser the woods grew, till they saw more sand than trees. The river wound into rocky outcroppings that gradually changed into a gaudy mix of yellow orange and white, rather than the imposing dark gray Cas was used to in his homeland. The going was slow, but the change was so instant Cas had to take pause and actually look at their surroundings.

The rock walls now towered over their heads and the river lost most of its force, the current churning lazily rather than the roiling wrath they set out in so long ago on those distant northern shores. The days also grew warmer; it was a phenomenon Cas wasn’t familiar with at all. He found himself beginning to sweat profusely after only a few hours of rowing. He shucked his fur cloak and set it at the bow with the rest of their things and instantly felt cooler. The sun was still the same sun; he did not understand how it could possibly be hotter than back home. Then again, home had trees that never died and snow that fell year round, even in the tenuous spring. This was something new.

“Papa, it is so _hot_!” Girl cried as she languished in the center of the canoe, trailing her fingertips in the nearly still water that had grown lazy, and deeper, now more of a long winding lake than a river.

“Take off your cloak.”

“But I do not _want_ to…”

“Then be hot.”

Girl groaned and flopped around like a fish out of water before she sat up and begrudgingly removed her wolf head cloak. Her ratty tangles had become sweaty and plastered to her forehead. Cas wrinkled his nose, perhaps he would cut it all off in her sleep. She pushed up her sleeves and pants legs, till she gave up on that and removed those too, sitting in only a thin sleeveless top and her underpants. She sighed dramatically, giggling when a breeze stirred her matted hair.

“Papa, this is so much better! Take off your shirt; it is too hot for those clothes here.”

Cas grumbled but did not comply. In his life, only his mate and the wild had seen his naked body, and he wanted to keep it that way as long as possible. Girl shrugged and hummed a tuneless song under her breath as Cas kept up rowing. At midday the sun hung low and heavy over their heads, making everything shimmer beneath a white haze, and even the river heated to the temperature of bathing water. He sighed in satisfaction when he let his wing tips trail through the water, but he didn’t dare completely submerge them. The added weight of the water would surely upset the balance of their little boat and send them and their belongings into the river. A few more hours of the sun on his head had Cas growling in dissatisfaction before he finally tore off his overcoat and his buckskin jacket from beneath that. The wind whistled and snapped around his sweat covered skin and it felt divine, the salt water instantly drying and caking onto his exposed flesh. His pants were the last to go, as were his boots, till all he had were a short pair of buckskin leggings.

He blinked down at his paste pale skin and grimaced, but he knew from experience that it would tan quickly, to match his face and scarred hands. His scars would turn white, as pale as his skin was now instead of the pink they were. Some would fade in time, but the old ones on his hands and chest would last forever. They were curious shaped wounds, warped by the growth of his flesh and bones. His hands were strange things to him, not limbs of his body but instruments, a means. They creaked and groaned like his bow of aged wood, taut and well used. They could be utilized as weapons, deadly as said bow, and his many knives and blades. They could also be used to raise Girl. He raised her from the day she had been birthed, he pulled her from between her mother’s legs and cleaned her bloodied body, had fed her, clothed her, had taught her to speak and hunt and fight. He had taught her to survive and live with these scarred hands.

Girl laughed at his disgruntlement and flicked water at him. He flinched when it hit his bare skin but he smiled indulgently. He felt too exposed now, and every rocky outcropping could hold a hidden foe, every gentle lapping wave against the side of the canoe could mean movement of something lurking beneath them. That thought alone had him speed his rowing. He wasn’t aware of eyes on him till the next month. The sun was shrouded behind low lying clouds, and for the first time in days Cas could take a proper look around without squinting. First he saw movement, and then he heard the soft sound of pebbles skittering down the sides of the canyon into the water below, swallowing the rasp of bare feet and flesh against stone. He grasped Girl’s now sun-browned shoulder—she had freckles, like her father—and pulled her close. She had fallen silent shortly after Cas had, possibly sensing his unease.

Cas let the canoe drift, and he held Girl tight, remaining as still as possible. The people he saw on the cliffs were unlike any he had seen before. Their skins were dark from a lifetime in the sun, and they wore little more than limp cloths that covered their genitals, some of the women were even bare from the waist up. Their weapons were primitive in comparison with the Empire’s, but Cas was never one to judge. Their arms and legs were painted with greenish blue lines that differed with each person; it made them strange and alien to him. They seemed to gather en masse, more and more appeared the further they drifted, and Cas almost wanted to turn the canoe around and row back the way they came, but soon they were surrounded by other boats, and people standing in the water. They were all silent, and all were staring at them.

Girl whined and Cas squeezed her shoulder, silencing her. They needed to remain calm, the people might not even mean them harm, they could just be watching them because they were so different, as different as they were to him. He prayed it was not a fool’s hope. His wings fluttered and twitched behind him erratically, irritated, and he looked back to see women and children caressing his longer flight feathers in gentle awe. He hissed and bunched them up by his shoulders, crowding them into the canoe. After hours of drifting, Cas noticed they weren’t drifting at all, the people in the water were pushing their canoe, guiding it through the rock framed river, passing them gently from hand to hand. The going was slow, but they were in these people’s territory now, he couldn’t do anything hasty.

Before long, the people steered them through a thin crevasse in the rock face, leading them down a narrow passage. The light was dim down the way, and Cas looked up to see the rock eroded away in waving patterns, revealing sediment layers striped into the sides of the walls, like a glacier. The way grew brighter, and then they were deposited into a lake, revealing a veritable oasis. Everywhere they saw, people stopped to stare at them, ceasing their daily activities, some mid-motion. Cas wound his full arm around Girl’s thin shoulders, fighting the instinct to snarl under such scrutiny. Cas remembered one of the few times his father had sat him, Sam, and Dean down by the fire to tell them a story about the savage tribes in the west that feasted on human flesh and used the skulls of little boys for dinner bowls. Mary had knocked him upside the head for telling such tales, but the idea stuck in Cas’s head ever since. All stories start from somewhere, despite truthfulness.

Their canoe nudged the shore, and the people in the water that had guided them from the river emerged and stood on the bank, naked and dripping, staring, waiting. Cas growled low in his throat, a distressed sound more than any of aggression. Others came forward and took their things, taking care not to drag their packs in the water. Cas made an attempt to stop them, but couldn’t find the courage to do so. Soon enough, when all the people continued to do was stare at him, Cas jerkily lifted Girl into his arms and stepped out into the shallows. The water was warm against his feet, pleasant even, but he refused to let the small comfort make him complacent. Girl clung to him and whimpered against his throat; he could feel her shaking in fright. He took a hesitant step forward, and the people turned and walked ahead, some even returning to their earlier activities.

Small children ran up behind him, tracing his steps giggling, poking at his wings only if the bravest dared. No one led him, but Cas held the distinct notion that he was being guided by the calmness of the tanned and painted people; he was stared at if he walked out of place, till he noticed a pattern in the fern covered huts that seemed to reveal a main street of some sort, so he followed it. The huts cleared, leading to an eroding stone monolith, the shape of which Cas could not place, and another hut at the base, though this one was much larger than the others surrounding it. Perhaps this was where the chieftain resided, and perhaps this chieftain spoke the common tongue, or at least understood the crude dialect that Cas had developed for Girl and himself. A blonde man emerged from the hut, equally tanned as the rest of the people, yet did not possess similarly colored dark hair or eyes. His eyes were blue, like Cas’s.

“Welcome, stranger.” He greeted, holding his arms out wide in a gesture of greeting. He had strange scarification around his eyes and brows, and the near entirety of his forearms, thighs and calves were decorated with the same blue-green paintings as the other people from the water. His accent was strange, it didn’t sound anything like his or Dean’s, he sounded more like his father.

“We did not mean to intrude…” Cas replied slowly, so as not to stumble over his words and make a fool of himself. His only audience for years now had been Girl, and she was never one to correct his mistakes. The man quirked a brow but said nothing about his hesitant diction, and he strode forward, keeping a wary eye on Cas’s wings. He shifted them nervously, it had been so long he had nearly forgotten about their effect on strangers. Dean was no longer by his side to cover for him.

“It is no intrusion, unless you are from the Empire…?” The man asked, his tone darkening at the mere mention of it.

“We are not from that place.” Cas hissed, not missing how the man relaxed, albeit minutely.

“Which is why you are so far west.”

“Yes.”

“Huh,” The man nodded, extending a hand in front of Cas’s chest, “You may stay as long as you like, and you may call me Lucifer.”

Cas glanced down at the hand, remembering vaguely, once, when another man greeted John the same way. He took the offered hand, but knew not what to do with it.

“I am Cas, and this is my child, I call her Girl.”

The man laughed heartily and clasped his other hand against Cas’s.

“’Girl’? That’s quite a name for a child.”

“There was no other name for her…” Cas stated fondly, looking down at his mate’s daughter. If only she knew; she would not look up at him with such love and admiration in her eyes. She was Cas’s child, well and truly, but was still the fruit of another man’s loins.

“Well, you are quite welcome here, Cas.  Any enemy of the Empire is a friend of mine.”

Cas nodded his thanks and swept a wing around Girl’s shoulders. They had found a home, temporary as it may be, but still home. Lucifer glanced at Cas’s wings once again, with a curious expression.

“You know, I, too, had wings like yours. Fine things they were; bold, white as the middle land snow,” he paused and turned to the side, to show his bare back, “till I burned them off and sent myself into exile.”

Cas’s wings bristled and he shivered, looking at the still sickeningly black stumps where wings had indeed once sprouted.

“Why…why would you burn…?” Cas stammered, taking a cautious step back.

“Why do all men commit wrong and right in the same lifetime? So that he may repent, even when old gods turn from his face and he must embrace new fathers and mothers…”

“I…I do not understand you…”

“It is fine, cousin, you need not understand me now. But you will, in time.”

“What is this talk of gods? I believe in no gods, I would never understand you.”

“Then your journey will be far simpler than my own. You have nothing to forget, only something to run towards.”

“Why not fly?”

Lucifer smiled then, ill mood forgotten.

“Where you must go, you cannot fly. The water will weigh you down, your wings will become the weight of a thousand men, and they will drag you down with them. In time you will see.”

“And why do I have to go…?”

“The only reason why one such as you would flee this far west is because you are protecting someone.”

He turned and walked back to his hut, beckoning others to come forward to lead Cas and Girl to a hut close by. Cas watched him go, saw the black stubs again, and could not bear the thought of ripping his wings from his own back, cauterizing the wounds till all that remained were charred bones and numb cartilage. But he knew now of what Lucifer spoke of as he watched Girl run ahead with the other children, laughing and skittering about in the shallows. He would rip them away with his own hands if it meant saving his child…if it meant getting his mate back.

 

Michael tried to pay attention at the next ministers meeting—really, he did—but he was beginning to question his decision to have Dean stand servant during the duration of the conference. He had dressed him provocatively in a slip of midnight cloth that barely resembled the common slave’s smock. It hung loosely over one shoulder and tied doubly around his waist to prevent any untoward slips of flesh in the presence of the politicians. He was too busy focusing on the line of his slave’s throat as the man poured another more wine rather than listening to a minister to his left ramble about some sort of drought that had occurred in the southernmost tip of the Empire.

“Slave! More wine, and ah, more of those cherry tarts as well, there’s a good lad.” A portly minister to Michael’s left shouted out between discussions. Michael glowered at the fat man. It irked him to no end when others spoke to Dean as if he were slow, or did not understand the common tongue. He understood just fine, and he was hardly mentally challenged. But, nevertheless, his slave was a good slave. Dean would simply smile indulgently and fulfill their commands. He looked around and noticed he wasn’t the only one garnering pleasure from the view of Dean bending over the table in the back, retrieving the minister’s refreshments. When Dean walked over to the minister, the man took the plate with a small grin and beckoned him closer.

“Here, sweet thing, have one, they are quite delectable.”

Dean had the decency to blush as he looked to his master for approval. Michael waved his hand, allowing Dean to do as he pleased. The slave smiled at the minister again, but it was small, and restrained. He leaned over, for the man would not allow him to take the treat by hand, and opened his mouth obediently. The man chortled and smeared the red, gooey pastry over Dean’s lips, chin and nose before setting it in the man’s mouth. Dean’s blush deepened, mortified, and Michael could have been mistaken, but he swore he saw a flash of murderous hatred cross the man’s face before it was gone in an instant as he chewed slowly.

“Ah, would you look at that, the wolf has gone and made a mess of himself.”

The others laughed at the slave’s expense, but Michael did not join in their mirth. His pen snapped in his grip and his cheeks burned hot. _No one_ spoke of Dean that way. Only Michael could. Dean’s eyebrows were furrowed in consternation, and he clearly struggled to keep his hands docilely clasped in front of him instead of wiping the mess away himself, which would surely earn him a swift reprimand, perhaps even punishment.

“Well come on then,” The minister goaded, slapping Dean’s bare thigh with a lewd smack, “clean yourself off, lick your lips, boy. Show us how wolves clean themselves.”

Dean’s eyes flew to meet Michael’s, and he licked his lips ever so slightly, though he was still blushed crimson in humiliation.

“Minister,” Michael started softly, startling the others into silence, “Keep your hands from what is mine, or I shall have your hands.”

The minister paled and immediately placed his hands in his lap, food and good humor forgotten. Michael jerked his head to the door, and his slave left with his head down, shoulders hunched and shaking. But Michael knew from experience his slave would not break from such treatment. The things Michael subjected him to in the bedroom were far worse than a little cherry jelly on his face, but he knew the fact that it was so very public humiliated his slave. What Michael did to him in private hardly fazed him, but this was open mockery. Dean had been kept separate from other highborn men so he wouldn’t know how others treat their slaves. Dean was special, he should know very well by now.

 

Dean fought back sobs as Michael choked him while fucking him, again. When he had returned from the conference to find Dean cleansing his face in the slave baths, he had taken him by his arm, led and locked him into his chambers, and hadn’t spoken a word since. Dean forced choked out moans and gasped for air when he could, trying to make it convincing this time so Michael wouldn’t send him from the room. He thought of Cas…how if Cas were taking him like this Dean would be horribly aroused. He would be writhing for it, like a bitch in heat. He let Cas’s scent flow into his mind, the remembered weight of his body, how his cock felt inside of him. Not brutal, but still just as claiming. He felt himself steadily growing hard, and he nearly wept in relief when Michael saw, wide eyed, and removed his hand from his neck. Michael leaned over Dean, crushing him into the bed linens and cushions as he licked at his chest and nipples, suckling them and then trailing up his neck, to his still sweet tasting face.

“No one can touch you like that, _sweet thing_ …No one but me…” Michael sobbed into his sticky flesh, licking at it and taking his lips in bruising dominant kisses that were more teeth and tongue than tender. Dean dared to raise his hands and embrace Michael as he rocked into him, rubbing along Michael’s spine, feeling his muscles bunch and relax as he fucked his slave.

“Yes, your grace…” Dean replied breathily when he heard Michael grunt, and felt the telltale spread Michael’s release. Michael slumped against him, limp, and Dean was grateful that they were almost the same in size, though Dean held more muscle in his frame.

“I want to keep you in my chambers. No one else can see you or touch you.”

“Yes, your grace.” Dean fought to keep relief from coloring his words.

“Come morning we will wash ourselves, you will dry me, dress me, and then I will be off to business. You will stay here with the door locked, clean up around the room, air the linens, and place orders for whatever food you desire. But you will not leave these chambers, is that understood?”

“Yes, your grace.” Dean replied easily; after all, this was what he had been praying for since he had been taken as Michael’s slave. Michael placed one more kiss against his slave’s neck, then after a few short minutes Dean could hear the man’s soft snores. Dean wriggled uncomfortably, trying to settle down further into the rich mattress, but he had grown sick of such luxury long ago. He wanted his bedroll back, he wanted the hard forest floor, he wanted Cas at his back and not this disgusting pig of a man who dared call himself Dean’s master.

 

Gabriel let Sam know when they were a few miles south of the Basilica the details of their escape. Due to the level of freedom afforded to them, Gabriel had been able to secure liaisons with the men he mentioned earlier, and their escape would take place at the main gate. They were already in the Empire, had been for some time now, and Sam could already see the effects of Michael’s reign. Men, women, and children alike lay withering and dying in the streets. A man laid naked, rotting in a gutter, and the people walked around the body as if it were a bothersome house pet or a piece of furniture. Bread peddlers battled for street space with weapons sellers and packs of mercenaries that prowled like wolves.

Everything was black and blue. The stones, the fabrics, the streets, the people bruised and battered. The banners flying along the fortress walls were a black field trimmed in blue with a blue five-pointed star in the center, flanked by two blue olive branches. Olive branches meant peace in the Empire, according to his books, but Sam knew it had been a long time since the Empire last saw peace. The main gates loomed large in front of their caravan, and Sam was steadily growing aware of shifty eyed mercenaries walking in tandem with the Empire guard and their captors. Gabriel kept close to Sam, pressing him closer to the center of the caravan, easing between two loaded carts—filled with grain and wine, Sam thought—where he began to pick at his cuffs with a small bit of wire.

“Those are our men,” Gabriel murmured, keeping his voice low and their heads down. Sam nodded, rubbing his wrists when Gabriel wrestled the iron shackles away and tossed them in the cart next to them. The men circling their wagons were dark skinned and dark of hair, with blue markings the likes of which Sam had never seen. They were almost upon the gates, when suddenly—after some unheeded call—the men fell upon the soldiers like wolves, slicing, breaking and tearing their way through their armor and flesh like butter with animalistic battle cries. Gabriel pulled him away by the arm when a soldier fell to the ground next to them, bleeding out and screaming. He had no left arm, just an empty, bloody socket. Sam fought to breathe, but Dean and Cas had been the ones more prone to violence and gore, and he spewed bile onto the road, half onto the dying man. Gabriel grimaced and pulled him to two startled horses without riders.

“Come on, Sam, we’ve only got one shot at this!”

Sam nodded dumbly, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand and he mounted the horse, pulling it around and galloped after Gabriel. Chaos surrounded him. Black was still black, but blue ran red, spattered with gore and bile and bone, the blood of innocents and guilty all the same, none were saved.

“To the west!” Gabriel shouted over the sound of screams and beating hooves, and soon they were flanked by more riders, bloodied, but not wounded. Sam chanced a glance behind them and saw only the road. No one had dared to follow them. He saw the gates of the Basilica grow distant, then gone behind a wall of dust. He had been close to his brother, for the first time in years, so close, yet too far away. Sam couldn’t have possibly saved him. He was a prisoner, just like Dean, and stood as much of a chance of escaping on his own as saving his brother from Michael. He bit his lip and gripped the reigns tighter, urging his mount to keep up with Gabriel and the tanned riders. Where they were going—Sam thought—he would settle down and think of a proper plan to save his brother.

 

Dean woke immediately when Michael barged into their rooms. After the morning’s bath and dressing, Dean had aired out the linens and had decided to take a nap it seemed in the sunny balcony high above the ground, away from the noise and the stink of the city. He was dressed only in his underclothes, the only pair afforded to him, due to the extreme warmth of the day and the sun, giving Michael a view he very much appreciated. A simple cloth covering, it did little more than cover his genitals and the line of his ass, and Michael thought that small amount of skin covered to be more gratifying than full nakedness. He could appreciate a clothed slave, from time to time.

“Come,” Michael commanded, and Dean arose gracefully from his seat on the balcony, striding forward into Michael’s waiting arms. Dean smelled of their bath oils, and the salt of his sweat, and the burnt, cloying smell of heat and sunlight. Michael inhaled deeply, licking at his neck and clavicle. He very nearly forgot his anger, but upon seeing the plume of smoke from his window he snarled and slammed the balcony doors shut, flinging Dean down onto their newly sheeted bed. Dean whimpered, but obediently did not move. Good. His slave had learned well. But there was one thing Michael had put off for far too long.

“Where are you from, slave?” Michael asked coolly, fingering the small vial of herb potion tucked away in his pocket. His healers assured him that one drop of the liquid in Dean’s drink would have him spilling his deepest secrets, all at a command from Michael. He hoped he wouldn’t have to use it, and if he did, he hoped he asked the right questions.

“F-from the Middle Lands, m’lord…south of the Empire’s borders.” Dean answered quickly with his head bowed. He had learned the hard way that Michael didn’t like to be kept waiting.

“The name, slave, the name of your town, I would have it.”

Dean shuddered and stammered, “I-I did not live in a town, your grace. I lived ten miles from one, in a cabin with my parents and brothers, by a frozen lake. I do not remember the name of the town, m’lord.”

“You never traveled west, then? Ever? Even during any hunting trips?”

Dean furrowed his brow in genuine confusion, it was almost endearing.

“No, there’s nothing west for hunting. North’s the way to go.”

“Ah,” Michael drawled, “forgive me. The intricacies of hunting are quite lost on me, I’m afraid.”

Dean’s cheeks blazed, but he kept his head down. Michael tilted his head and walked forward, rubbing his slave’s neck and cheek. Dean leaned into the touch easily, eyes fluttering as he sighed.

“And your family,” Michael snapped, drawing his hand away, “you said you had brothers, and a mother and father. Tell me about them.”

“Two younger brothers, m’lord. M-My father was originally from the Empire, he, he was a Saint.”

Michael quirked his brow, but did not interrupt.

“My mother was from the east, a healer…last I saw of her though she was ill in health, both of mind and body.”

“And your father?”

“Dead. Many years ago, from a wolf attack on our house.”

“And your brothers? Tell me about them.”

“Um, Sam, he’s tall, light of hair, and so smart…he could read books all day if you let him,” Dean’s eyes dimmed, he was looking somewhere far away, lost in a memory with a faint smile, “he never liked hunting, said he wanted to leave soon as he was old enough but…but with our mother the way she was that didn’t happen.”

“And your other brother?”

Dean’s expression clouded, and his sharp green gaze fell on Michael’s. For once since Michael had brought him here, he felt truly threatened.

“Dead. Died with father by the wolf.”

“His name, slave.”

“Um, A-Adam…”

Michael sighed and turned away from Dean, to their platter of lunch foods. He didn’t want to resort to treachery to glean information from his own slave, but Dean was hiding something. Inconsequential or not, slaves do not lie to their masters. Michael poured them both a small cup of wine, taking care to place a drop of the potion into Dean’s, before he turned and found Dean sitting up, regarding him warily.

“Is that why you have such scars?” Michael asked, taking care to pump in every ounce of false sincerity he could muster. Dean nodded and accepted the offered glass, taking a small sip after Michael took his first.

“I would normally have them covered, but I…”

“They disgust you?”

“They are merely memories…of a day I’d rather forget.”

“Wouldn’t you rather talk about it? I find that speaking of what displeases me, or saddens me, makes everything better.” Michael coddled when Dean finished his wine, he must have been thirsty sitting out in the sun all day. Dean frowned down at his glass but set it on the floor.

“It was a day like any other, cold and dark. Those days were bad, in the dead of winter anything could happen and we would all be dead, anything. We were cut off from the town, we were alone. When the wolves came we…” Dean’s eyes clouded again, as if he were seeing the phantom beasts before him, even now, “we barricaded ourselves in the basement, me and Sammy and momma…The wolves got to dad first, reckon he was dead before he even hit the ground, and A-Adam, he had been knocked down by one of them. I didn’t know if he was alive or dead, but we heard shots, then we opened the door. They were both dead and the wolves had gone.”

Nothing about Dean’s story seemed disingenuous, and the man seemed close to tears upon remembering it, but Michael still wasn’t so sure. Perhaps the potion needed longer to take effect. Dean blinked blearily up at him when Michael pushed him down into the cushions, crushing him with his body weight as he tore away his slave’s meager clothing, sliding into him with minimal resistance. He fucked into him quickly, startling quick huffs from the smaller man upon every thrust. Dean’s eyelids drooped till they were barely open, and soon soft moans issued from his swollen lips. For the first time in a long time Dean began to writhe against him, pushing his hips up to meet Michael’s thrusts, and Michael grabbed onto his thighs to gain purchase, fucking him harder. Dean’s moans turned practically to shouts of pleasure, and Michael was beginning to wonder if his healers were wrong and had given him an aphrodisiac instead. Michael was close, so close, leaning over Dean’s face, rutting as fast as he could, when Dean thrust his hands around Michael’s back and sunk them into his plumage. Dean had never commented on Michael’s wings, though Michael knew they wouldn’t be a common sight for someone from the middle lands. He groaned in surprised pleasure at the sensations shooting down his spine, echoing in his bones and feathers.

“Cas…”

Michael ceased his frantic rutting, mouth hanging agape. Dean whined and pulled harder at the down closest to Michael’s back and he hissed. Dean’s hands drew back as if he were burned.

“I’m sorry, Cas, I’m sorry…won’t do it again, just fuck me please…oh god…”

Michael looked down at Dean’s face and saw the man’s face flushed with pleasure, his eyes screwed tightly shut. He was panting and rolling his hips, trying to get Michael to move inside of him. Michael grunted when he felt Dean’s insides spasm in a way he was most unfamiliar with, and Dean chuckled darkly.

“C’mon, Cas, c’mon…”

Dean flipped them with a savage strength Michael knew he possessed but never saw him use. He was mesmerized by the sensual grinding of Dean’s hips and the velvety wet heat that was squeezing his cock like a vice. Whenever Michael fucked Dean it wasn’t like this, never this personal, or downright dirty. Dean was uttering a steady stream of filth the likes of which Michael had only heard in the lowest of whore houses, interspersed with the name Dean said earlier, Cas. Had the potion been a hallucinogen? Did Dean think he was with this _Cas_ at the moment? Michael, of course, couldn’t help but think of Castiel, his long lost older brother…But surely his luck couldn’t be that fortunate, could it? After endless years of searching the answer lay, literally, right in front of him.

“Been so long, Cas…so long…Been hurting here without you…” Dean gasped and his body arched and locked and he rode Michael even harder, practically bouncing on his hips with his cock buried deep inside, hitting that sweet spot that made lights dance underneath his closed eyelids. Dean’s hands found his and fumbled with them, forcing them onto his hips to hold on, bucking and moaning.

“Please, Cas, fill me… _breed_ me…”

Michael moaned and flipped them again so he could control the pace, slamming into the slave with renewed fervor. Dean’s cries echoed around their rooms, and they had probably garnered an audience at their locked doors, but privacy and modesty were the last two things on Michael’s mind as he drove into his slave, grunting and moaning through his release when he finally rammed deep into Dean’s fucked out hole and spent inside of him, marking his walls with his seed. Dean moaned, low and long, and he too spent over their stomachs, his seed mixing with their combined sweat.

“Fuck that was good,” Michael murmured into Dean’s neck, nosing at the sweat slick hairs at the space behind his ear. Dean froze, and then immediately bucked and screamed from beneath Michael, spitting and clawing like some sort of wild cat. Michael laughed in startled surprise, making a game of keeping Dean’s wrists pinned down to the bed. Dean’s normally quiescent face was contorted in livid rage, fury blazing in his evergreen eyes.

“Who the hell do you think you are?” Michael chortled, keeping Dean pinned by his wrists and his hips, cock still buried inside of him. He was growing hard again at the sight of his usually pliant slave; his chest was heaving and splotches of angry red covered his flesh, almost every muscle in his body was bunched tight in aggression, including the muscles in his ass that gripped Michael’s cock so tight he grimaced, deciding to pull out for his own sake. Dean snarled and spit in Michael’s face, and Michael released one of his wrists to slap him, dazing him for a moment.

“Just what was that all about? Who is Cas?” Michael demanded, and abruptly Dean’s demeanor changed, turning confused and almost vacant, falling lax in his grip though Michael wasn’t fooled.

“Cas is…he is my brother.” Dean stated as if it were the most obvious fact in the whole world.

Michael wrinkled his nose in disgust. Incest wasn’t exactly common, though not unheard of, but to think that the man that had held Dean before Michael had been his own brother was…interesting.

“So Adam is not real…?”

“Cas is real, I know no one named Adam.”

It would seem that the potion was finally taking effect, though the earlier hallucinogenic side-effect was rather unorthodox.

“And who is Cas, exactly?”

“I remember finding him in the woods—no—my father found him in the woods, with a dead man with flaxen hair. Cas was so little, but so heavy. He had wings, like yours, but his are larger. Much more to grab onto…” Dean trailed off, cheeks coloring as he licked his puffy lips. “He had little black shoes with him, made of glass. Useless things tore at his skin from the cold. He has scars now.” Michael was sure to make a mental note of it. Dean trailed off and his eyes cast downward, demure, though this time Michael could notice the sincerity of it.

“The first time he touched me we had been wrestling, like all boys do. It was the summer of his seventeenth year, and I was already so much older than him, over a decade more…But a lot of things didn’t mean much to Cas, age bein’ one of ‘em…He kissed me when we rolled into the lake, lying in the shallows when everyone else had gone home to wash up for supper. Cas wasn’t much for words, never did speak to me before, or to anyone, but…that kiss said more than any words could. He wanted me, and I was ready to give myself to him, if’n that’s what it took to keep him.”

“Is he Castiel? Is he the Unholy Prince?” Michael asked, heart in his throat. Dean looked up at Michael with tears in his eyes.

“The last time I touched him we were holding hands in a tent. Just holding hands, nothin’ more. Girl was there beside me; she had crawled away from him, around the fire to sit with me. Stupid child,” Dean smiled grimly and a tear tracked its way down onto his lips, hanging tremulously as he stammered before he licked it away, “just like her daddy…”

“But is he _Castiel_?!” Michael roared, not daring to strike Dean now, fearing it would break the spell.

“Not even the night before the old woman told me that my Cas was a bastard prince, unwanted by his own kingdom, hunted like the spawn of the devil.” Dean forced out between sobs. Michael released Dean and sat back, feeling faint and short of breath. Dean didn’t move any more than to curl in on himself, hugging his shoulders and sobbing into his arms. To think, all this time the answer had been laying in the slave quarters, in his own bed…Michael could scarcely wrap his mind around it.

 “You’ve lied so prettily,” Michael chuckled, thumbing at Dean’s lips. He pulled his hand away when Dean tried to bite him. He smiled ruefully. “This was all an act, wasn’t it? The sex, even your personality, all fake.”

“Damn right,” Dean growled, his voice thick with tears and emotion, as he burrowed away into the blankets and cushions. Michael was ill inclined to retrieve him, not up for any more altercations for the evening.

“You were protecting Castiel all along.”

“Had to, but good luck finding him now. You should count yourself lucky, one more day of this shit and I woulda tore your head from your neck…whoever gave you _whatever_ it was you used on me knew what they were doing…”

Michael chortled and eased down onto the edge of the bed, wary of Dean now that he was…different.

“All of your reactions to the drugs, all faked as well?”

“Of course,” Dean snorted, “who do you take me for? Some city whore? I’m a forester; I’m immune to almost anything you put in me.”

“But not this,” Michael stated, smiling. Dean frowned and turned away, obviously finished speaking for the day.

“I will enjoy breaking you, truly this time,” Michael hissed in Dean’s ear, giving it one last lick before standing from the bed.

“By the way,” Michael said as he paused by the door, “the sounds and smoke from earlier, which you undoubtedly noticed…they were from a caravan from the middle lands. It would seem that more traitors have been captured. Gabriel, and…oh, who was it? Some lad named Sam.” Michael smirked when he saw Dean stiffen on the bed. His informants had been right. Now it was only a simple matter of tracking the other Winchester down. Wherever he headed, Castiel was bound to be close by. He left to the sound of Dean’s sobs, and he reminded himself to visit his healers and congratulate them for finding an effective means to control the mutt, and to order them to pursue more foreign herbs and remedies, couldn’t hurt to be prepared. He locked the door behind him, and the click of the lock echoed down the empty hallway with a definite sense of finality.

 

Cas’s time at River Rock—that’s what Lucifer said the natives called it—was, though not entirely pleasant, at least agreeable. The people kept out of his way so long as he kept out of theirs, and Girl was allowed free reign of the settlement to play with the other children. She had been raised all wrong, Cas knew that, and he held no delusions of being the proper voice in her development. She was different than the other children, too grown to play with those her own age. The wilderness had made her an old soul, like Cas. She didn’t fit in with the other young ones, but she tried. Cas didn’t even attempt to assimilate with the people. He knew he was too different to ever hope to blend with them. They were graceful and their movements flowed like the water, he was succinct, every action of his held a purpose or it was useless. _Artful_ was not in his vocabulary.

Lucifer did oversee his marking though. It would seem that gaining tattoos was like a rite of passage to these people, and a grown man without at least an age marker was shameful at best. So he gritted his teeth and allowed the bare minimum, age markers for both himself and Girl. She was thrilled that at last her skin matched her peers, and barely the day after they were healed enough she was ripping through the water, squealing and laughing with the rest of them with fresh teal marked on her shoulder. Cas wasn’t let off easy though, it was one thing for a girl to have only age markers, but another matter entirely for him to have the minimum. The list went on and on, the stares continued, till finally he relented and snarled at Lucifer to have it done and be done with it.

The tattoo makers conversed with Lucifer silently for a while, with Cas sitting on a nearby rock, dejected and silently fuming. He did not believe in marking the flesh, save for a mating mark from teeth and tongue, and would never abide Dean being marked in such a way, he could scarcely believe that he allowed Girl to be marked as well. Girl sat by his side, playing with the ends of his furs that he never removed. He despised being so bared to these people, but from the way Lucifer was gesturing to his chest and shoulders, he knew he would have to make himself naked soon. The withered old man approached, and how one so old could have such steady hands Cas did not know. Lucifer came over as well, shooing Girl away, and he unbuckled and unstrapped the furs from Cas’s shoulders and chest. Cas squawked in protest but Lucifer scoffed and hit him lightly on the head. The old man glanced at his scarred chest with brows furrowed in concentration, but said not a word.

Lucifer and Cas watched as the old man laid out his planned ink with a water based paint that dried, like dye, on his skin. Lucifer nodded his approval, and the man began with the needles. After the first two tattoos—a strange whorl design on each of his shoulders—he was numb to the pain, but when the man settled in directly in front of him to plan out another mark on his chest Cas balked, growling low in confusion. Lucifer laughed at the sound.

“You are more like a wolf than a man, my friend. You never let anyone too close, save your cub.” He grinned, gesturing to Girl who lay sleeping at his feet. Cas twitched in annoyance, but didn’t dare move as the old man came at him with the needle again. This marking was much larger than the first two, and more painful. It tracked over the edges of his scars, and he couldn’t hold back a wince. The old man paused, but continued after a pointed look from Lucifer. When he was done, the old man nodded once to Cas and then to Lucifer, packing his items and retreating to his hut at the outskirts of the settlement. Cas hissed when he stood, unwittingly stretching the raw flesh and ink. Lucifer clucked his tongue and steered him toward his dwelling with the promise of cool salve and bandages.

Safely deposited in the cool confines of Lucifer’s hut, Cas leaned back against the many cushions on Lucifer’s own pallet and sighed, gratefully accepting the clay cup full of water. Lucifer returned moments later with the bandages and a pot of some creamy white substance.

“You did well. Nary a flinch from you,” Lucifer commented idly, smoothing a handful of the cream onto the largest mark on his chest. Cas hissed but remained silent as Lucifer continued his work. “You know, these aren’t the only marks expected of you,” he said as he bound his chest. His shoulders weren’t nearly as sore, more a dull throb, like a bruised or skinned knee. “They’ll want more from you.”

“How many more?” Cas asked wearily, not hiding the rankle in his words.

“As many as it takes,” he answered cryptically, tying off the bandages.

And soon Lucifer had his way. When he was done, Cas had tattoos over almost every part of his body. He had tattoos on his shoulders, on his nose, chest, hands and fingers, thighs and calves, and even an extensive tattoo that started around his navel that dropped all the way down to his groin, wrapping around the root of his cock. They had to knock him unconscious for that one, not for the pain, but for the mere fact that when Lucifer suggested it Cas punched him in the jaw.

Cas hobbled to the river bank, sore in indescribable ways in unmentionable places, and stepped into the cool water, gingerly, to wash away the week’s cumulated filth from his body. The marks were healed enough to be exposed, but they still felt raw and sensitive. He dipped his fingertips into the water and the tattoos on his fingers and hands burned, he grimaced, but muscled through the discomfort. He hadn’t bathed properly in a month, and his wings were a right mess, full of dust and sand, knots and dead feathers that hadn’t quite blown away. He was molting due to the extreme temperatures, and he was grateful for the resulting new, lighter down, but his old feathers wouldn’t unstick. He couldn’t ask Girl to help, she was much too short, and he didn’t much feel like sitting at the moment. He also couldn’t possibly hope to reach it all himself.

Dean would have been the one to clean his wings, to knead at his sore flesh and straighten his skewed feathers. Cas crouched in the river, submerging himself up to his chin, disregarding the pain he was in. He paused when his wings sunk to the sandy bottom. Dean would have yelled at him for getting his wings wet, they would be sodden now, and would take hours to dry. That had been a problem in the frigid middle lands, but not here in this desert place. He wrapped his arms around his chest, feeling a pain there that had nothing to do with his fresh tattoos.

 

Sam followed Gabriel and his riders as they fled to the Great River. Sam had never seen it before, save the part that branched from it, trickling into the lake by his cabin. There were Empire power boats waiting for them on the banks, with more tanned people with them. Sam gaped in awe. He only recognized them from his books, and had never seen such technology first hand. With the power boats they could be miles away in minutes.

When Gabriel got them out onto the open water and turned on the machine, Sam covered his ears and sunk to the bottom of the boat, plastering himself next to the side. Gabriel laughed, but apologized.

“I keep forgetting that you lived in a cabin your whole life.”

Sam didn’t think it was that funny. He had enjoyed the concept of the machine far more than being in it. It moved far too quickly for his tastes, and the riverside flew past at an alarming pace, making him fall ill if he watched too often. They rode for hours, but soon the river grew narrow and twisted, they had to slow down or risk dashing themselves against the rocks and the bank. They drove for many days and nights, and the days grew hotter. Sam realized, then, that they were heading west, to the desert lands he had only read about. He had wondered over how the land could turn black and orange like rust, and as hot as a fire. Yet it did. Rock walls rose over their heads, sometimes eclipsing the sun completely, and heat shimmered over their surfaces, playing tricks on his eyes.

“How far must we go?” Sam asked, leaning against the makeshift hut at the center of the boat, built to sleep in and keep out of the sun.

“As far as we can.” Gabriel replied, and one of the dark skinned men laughed.

“There is no farther than River Rock.”

“River Rock?” Sam asked, wiping sweat from his brow.

“It’s the farthest settlement in the west. River Rock will probably be our last stop.”

“There are people there? Is it a town?”

“No,” Gabriel shook his head and laughed, “just a hodge-podge of old women and children, useless men…vagabonds, traitors, cut-throats…our kind of people.” He smirked at Sam’s expression. “Too late to go home now, boy.”

Sam frowned and crossed his arms, blinking when sweat trickled into his eyes. He knew they had to run from the Empire, but would trading one den of wolves for the other be a viable option or them?

“He jokes,” one of the dark skinned men laughed, “River Rock is harmless. Full of good people, my mother is from there.”

Sam relaxed, albeit minutely, he hardly knew these people, they could be killers for all he knew. He hardly knew Gabriel himself, but he owed him his life, so he would go with him, wherever their travels took them.

 

“The Empire has the one you love?” Lucifer asked Cas late one night when the stars were out and nearly outshined the moon.

“Yes.” Cas replied, almost too softly to be heard over the sound of the river.

“I can’t help you the way you are now, you know that…”

Cas propped himself up on his elbows and looked over at his newfound friend.

“How?”

“Your wings,” he started slowly, as if broaching the subject was painful. For Lucifer, Cas thought, it probably was. “You must have noticed that the River Rock people do not look upon you kindly.”

“I thought they hated me because I am an outsider.”

Lucifer shook his head, running a hand over Cas’s extended, gnarled wing.

“They look upon you with fear, you must notice. You are not from the river, not of the earth to them. You represent what most of them despise; the Empire.”

Cas scoffed and returned to laying on his back.

“I hate the Empire as much as they do. No, more”

“They do not know. They do not understand. To them, you are royalty, upper class. If you went to the Empire now you would be greeted with respect. They…they are dirt.”

“I know nothing of class. I am not royalty.”

Lucifer looked at him peculiarly, opened his mouth as if to say something, then decided against it.

“Anyway, all I’m saying is…if you want their help, or mine, you’ll have to make certain sacrifices.” He continued after a moment more of silence.

Cas rolled onto his side and stared at the scarred man. They were so close, almost touching; Cas could feel his body heat, hear his breaths.

“What sacrifices?” He asked lowly. He could hear Girl’s gentle breaths of sleep from inside their hut. Lucifer had refused to let Cas leave his hut after his tattooing, insisting that they move their belongings and live with him. Cas had resisted at first, but he noticed that things of theirs were going missing, turning up at the base of the stone monolith and in Lucifer’s hut, until finally, overnight practically, their makeshift dwelling had been deconstructed from around them by invisible hands, and then they had no choice but to live with the man. So far he hadn’t done anything untoward, but Cas was still wary of the man he dared call his friend.

“You have to burn them.”

Cas sucked in a breath and rolled onto his back. Lucifer held an unhealthy obsession when it came to fire, to burning things. One of the man’s tattoos was even a flame, which left Cas to wonder why Lucifer’s tattoos were more jagged compared to his own organic circular inked lines. Everything about the man was off. He held sway over the River Rock people, could even be called their chieftain, yet he was an Outsider; even he once had wings, same as Cas.

“Why should I?” Cas asked lowly, voice laced with venom. Lucifer was silent for a time, gazing at the stars above them.

“You will be different. You will have an Other inside of you. Things will happen that you will have no recollection of. It will most likely tear the things from your back itself. I would save you from that pain…” Lucifer whispered, eyes looking at Cas’s face, though he could tell the man was looking somewhere else, far away. “I could make it painless.”

“And for my wings…what would you give me?”

Lucifer chuckled and shook his head. “It wouldn’t be what _I_ would give you, it would be whatever Other took you as their own would give you.”

Cas bit his lip and regarded Lucifer, with his warped back and inked body, far more covered than Cas’s own with jagged edged ink.

“It would give me power to save the one I love?” Cas whispered as Lucifer trailed his coarse, calloused hand up his inner thigh. The man’s fiery hand squeezed just south of his groin, a foul promise in his touch.

“Yes.”

 

Dean’s days passed in blurs. Days went by as fast as minutes, then others dragged on and on in what felt like a week’s time. All of it he saw through a drugged haze. Michael had found herbs to hold him pliant and weary, horrible poisonous shrubs from the east, and Dean damned himself for not expanding his hunts with Cas, so that they, too, would be immune to these foul poisons.

Dean dreamt he saw Cas, often, too often to be coincidence he thought. But dreams were dreams, he knew, and they were fever dreams, little better than half remembered sticky thoughts in the heat of a summer’s night in his younger years.

Sometimes he imagined it was Cas holding and taking him in the night, not Michael. If it weren’t for the difference in their weight, especially their wings, the illusion would have been complete.

Michael had wings. Just like Cas had wings, but his were different. Cas’s were hard and bulging from usage in the wild whereas Michael’s were dainty and slight, far lighter than Cas’s, and his were hardly menacing. When Dean touched Cas’s wings, he had always felt their power, the muscles covered in tawny plumage that flexed and thrummed with every beat that matched his heart. Michael’s were dull and they hardly moved, and when they did they jerked, like a muscle spasm keeping oneself awake, or an afterthought, or how a horse’s flanks twitched to rid itself of winged pests.

In every way Dean could imagine, Cas was far more glorious than Michael. Michael was a toad, a wretch, a lecher and a fool that panted after anything that would spread its legs for him. He relied on sexual aggression to keep Dean in line, to keep him down and under, but Dean was quick to build immunities, always had been. _Soon enough_ , he thought when the potion makers forced more of that vile liquid down his throat, soon he would be free of this mind control and he would rip the disgusting wings from Michael’s back himself with his hands and teeth. He did not deserve them. There was only one who deserved wings in his eyes, and right now he was hundreds of miles away.

 

Cas stood frozen before the same crevasse in the river wall that he had entered through to his new life. It would serve a new purpose now. He was alone, naked, but feeling far more bare than ever before. His back burned and the phantom twitches of now useless muscles twittered under his skin. His wings were well and truly gone. He knew his skin would be cracked, swollen and black, and as equally misshapen and hideous as Lucifer’s, but he knew the outcome of such a travesty would be worth the shame.

He waded forward through the lukewarm water, eyes transfixed ahead. He could hear the low chanting of the River Rock people, and he blinked and flinched slightly when he felt the first few drops of paint that would soon cover his whole body. He glanced up at the top of the river canyon and saw Girl among the people of the tribe, dumping the paint and dyes down the walls onto his bared flesh. The paint would wash away, but permanent ink would follow the ceremony, upon his completion.

When he rounded the corner the people’s chanting increased. He wasn’t afraid, he had already overcome his greatest obstacle, hardly healed yet and already moving with his plans. Cas believed in no Gods; new, old, eastern, western, southern, or northern. He believed in the power of nature, her wiles were well known to him, and the only thing he believed to be truly good in this world. So he would play along with Lucifer and his delusions. Gods, real or not, held power over people, he had seen it. He would become the voice of the River Rock peoples’ Gods; violent, barbaric things from what he had gathered. He could become violent and barbaric, he could become a base, visceral thing if he so desired, he could become a disgusting letch of a man if that was what it took to get his mate back. And that was indeed what it took.

Lucifer was there by the shore to meet him, as bare as Cas was, though only marred by his tattoos and scars. He held out his hand, and Cas took it. Lucifer gripped his hand, and slipped up through the mud and paint over his arm, hand coming to rest around his neck, compelling him to walk forward again from where he had stalled. The dwellings had been cleared, and the ground around the stone monolith bare and burnt, black as the velvet night sky. Cas felt the blackened sand and grit stick to his feet as he walked, felt it crunch underneath like the fiery dead leaves of autumn back home.

“Give yourself over,” Cas heard Lucifer say, but he didn’t see his lips move, “give yourself over to us and we shall watch over you, keep you and your own safe.”

“I do not know what to do…” Cas said, heard his words warp around him and flung away in the wind.

“You are a mother or a father, or a daughter or a son; you are all of these things and more, Outsider. But most of all,” Cas felt a chilled touch over his heart, “you are ours, Castiel.”

Cas blinked and all he could see was white, white entreating so fully upon his senses that he felt he almost ceased to exist for a horrible, tangible moment. Then he felt the presence. It started out small, like a pinprick of blood on pale perfect skin, and then it spread like a torrent, like a deluge of calm and cold over his arms, his chest, through his very bones. He was dimly aware of touching the monolith, that was also charred and black, and his hands came away coated in charcoal, which he used to draw over the now dry paint, lining a new sigil directly below his clavicle. It flowed, like water, like air, like the earth itself. He knew it was right in his heart. He saw all of this as if looking through a glass, through someone else’s eyes and it felt like a hand was squeezing his brain and the juices were leaking from his ears and eyes.

He heard murmurs and whispers behind him and around him in tongues he did not understand and yet he did all the same, in electric bright voices that stung and enthralled him equally. The voices made horrid promises of torment and destruction, torture and maiming, raping and burning, pillaging and ravaging, and all of it Cas desired in his heart of hearts. He felt himself committing the acts, felt his hands around the necks of women and children alike, felt his hand hold the blade that dealt the blows. He felt him throw the people down—both men and women—felt as he took his pleasure from their unwilling bodies. He would destroy the Empire that destroyed _him_. He would take their lands like they took his own, and his love and his life. They would learn soon enough of what it meant to take what was his.

Everything was white.

 

Sam stirred from his spot by the bow when the natives around him whooped and hollered in excitement, jumping from the boat to swim ashore. He looked up above the boat and saw endless stone walls the likes of which he hadn’t seen before. They were tucked away from the world now, truly, in this land of orange and black sands and rock.

“We’re here,” Gabriel announced, stirring Sam with his now naked foot and Sam wrinkled his nose and batted him away, standing and yawning. Gabriel grinned impishly and jumped into the river himself, and Sam was surprised to see that it was rather shallow. The keel of their boat had most likely caught on the riverbed Sam thought as he gingerly removed his boots and stepped into the water. It was warm, and he instantly dug his toes into the sand beneath his feet, sighing. If he could have his way, he wouldn’t travel by boat ever again.

“Come on, Sam!” Gabriel called from further down the rocky canyon, and Sam hesitantly stepped forward, reluctant to leave their belongings behind. He rounded a corner and his breath caught at what he saw. It was a massive clearing, filled with huts and tents and several firmer structures made from stones and dried clay bricks. Cooking fires billowed smoke into the air, and the area smelled of fish and salt and spices. Dozens of small, sun dark children ran about their feet, laughing and squealing and Sam found himself smiling and laughing along, their delight infectious.

“I’m going to go talk to their priest, see if I can get him to raise the tide for us so we can bring the boat closer.” Gabriel explained, leaving his side to walk further into the community. Sam chuckled bitterly. No man could raise the water; they would simply have to wait for the tide to come in. But after a few minutes the water heated and bubbled around his ankles and the children screamed in excitement, swimming now that the water was…rising. The water was rising, Sam noted with a gape as it lapped at his upper thighs. A few from their group swam back around the corner, and a few minutes later the boat rounded the bend, coming to a stop not even feet from Sam’s dumbstruck face.

“Weird, isn’t it?” One of the children said, paddling around his waist, “My papa can do awesome things.”

“Your papa did this, did he?” Sam smiled wryly, earlier awe gone and now he wanted an explanation.

“Oh yes, Lucifer says he’s a _magic_ man now, he can do all _kinds_ of things. One time when we were starving he called fish to the river, big fish I ain’t ever _seen_ before!”

“Right…” Sam chuckled, and the little girl frowned and splashed the still overly warm water in his face.

“Come and meet him, you’ll see! You won’t laugh when he chops your stones off and feeds them to the river shark.” She growled and Sam gaped.

“That is enough, Girl, I do not chop _stones_ off.”

Sam backed away when one of the villagers came and lifted the mouthy girl from the water, grunting when she kicked and squealed in protest. The man was as dark as the girl, though not as much as the others Sam had seen, but he seemed to have far more tattoos than any one of them.

“But papa, he doesn’t believe you did that to the water!”

“No?” The man chuckled, not reproachful at all and he turned and dumped her back in the water with a splash. “Go play with the others, papa has business.”

Sam stared, fascinated, when he saw the man’s back. It was warped and burned, still livid red in some spots, splotchy white with new scar tissue in others. He winced in sympathy when the man straightened and the flesh stretched and warped to accommodate the movement, it had to be painful.

“I apologize for her, I…”

The man had turned around and Sam was finally able to get a good look at his face, and he couldn’t believe his eyes. His hair was a little lighter, but it was still thick and as unruly as ever. Uneven patches of facial hair dotted his chin and neck, a scruffy look that he knew he had adopted from watching Dean, that same scar on his chest from that wolf in the cabin all those years ago that now felt like another world and time entirely. And those eyes, still as bright and as blue as before.

“Sam…?” Cas, his brother, muttered, stepping forward hesitantly, and the others around them paused to watch them both.

“Cas, is that…is that you?” Sam croaked, hardly believing his eyes. Cas didn’t say a word, but he stumbled forward and drew Sam into a tight embrace, leaning his head against his neck. Sam reached around him, wrapping his arms around his waist in an effort to avoid the burns, too stunned to say anything.

“Sam,” Cas sobbed against his neck, and his arms tightened.

“Yeah Cas, it’s me…oh god it’s me…” Sam groaned, finding his voice as he tightened his grip and lifted Cas out of the water. Cas laughed and wrapped his legs around Sam’s waist, his voice thick, and his hands were everywhere, pressing around his shoulders, his back, running through his hair that was now a little longer than Cas was familiar with; he cupped his jaw and ran his thumbs over his eyebrows, kissing his forehead, all the while laughing and crying and uttering small words of gratitude and love. Sam set him down in the water and Cas slid gracefully from his waist, still staring fondly up at him, keeping a hand on the side of his face.

“I thought you to be dead,” Sam gasped, fighting off tears. For a moment they were back in the forest, in winter and snow and cold and everything was right and innocent again, but those days were long gone. Cas shook his head, smiling.

“But Cas, what…what happened to your wings? And you have tattoos now? I mean, what happened to you? And Dean! Oh, god! Dean’s still in the Empire. I just _left_ him how could I have been so _stupid_ and-”

“Sam,” Cas stopped him firmly with a hand on his chest and a lifted brow. Sam froze, realizing that Cas had spoken, for the second time within the past minute and he hadn’t even realized. He gaped like a fish out of water.

“You…you can talk? How…when?”

“When I lost Dean,” Cas answered, smile dropping.

“The river,” Cas continued, noticing Sam’s confusion, “the river broke the dam inside of me.”

Sam nodded, but he didn’t like it. Cas was definitely hiding something now, and he hoped that later he would get the full truth from Cas, and he hoped he could believe it.

“Papa, you cut his stones off yet?”

Cas blinked and looked down at the girl, and he lifted her into his arms, looking at Sam briefly with something unreadable in his eyes.

“Girl, this is Sam, my brother.”

She wrinkled her nose and glared at him, “Well I don’t like him.”

Cas laughed breathily and let her slip out of his arms to splash into the water again.

“Is she…?” Sam mouthed Dean’s name and Cas’s eyes widened, glancing down at the girl then back to Sam, nodding. Sam’s shoulders slumped and he kneeled with a soft smile on his lips.

“You have your daddy’s eyes,” he muttered, and the girl wrinkled her nose and frowned.

“Are you stupid? Papa has blue eyes, everyone knows that.”

“You’re right, I’m sorry. Uh, do you think I could talk to your papa alone please?”

She shrugged and skipped off to play and Sam watched her go. He stood and Cas was eyeing him warily.

“I couldn’t tell her,” he said, crossing his arms, “I couldn’t bear it.”

Sam nodded, trying to swallow around the dry lump in his throat.

“She is Dean’s.” Cas continued with a distant look in his eyes. “Born from Lisa in the cold and snow, would have died with her mother had I not…” He broke off and bit his lip, looking down. “Dean did not want her, and I took her as my own.”

“You raised her.” Sam prompted and Cas smiled softly.

“As much as I could.”

“And her name is Girl?”

“We never gave her a name…Girl just stuck.”

“And she never complained?”

“She does not know any better,” Cas laughed.

“I’m gonna have to get used to your voice,” Sam looked at Cas fondly. “Your accent is funny.”

“Forgive me for trying to learn all on my own.” Cas chuckled. Being with Cas again was easy and wonderful. He loved it, he loved Cas. He blinked and remembered the burns on his brother’s back and he frowned, gripping him on the shoulder to turn him around. He stared at Cas’s wingless back, at a loss for words.

“Not much to look at,” Cas tried to joke when Sam traced over the healing ropes of scar tissue and barely healed burns.

“Cas,” Sam sighed, admonishment thick in his tone, but Cas stepped away and turned back to face him.

“I had to do it, Sam. Maybe someday you will understand, perhaps not, but know that I did it for Dean. All of it, I did it for him.”

Sam nodded, following him into the shallows to retrieve their packs from the boat.

“So,” he started, attempting to change the subject, “you’re gonna tell me about those tattoos, right?”

“Yes, of course,” Cas breathed with a laugh, hefting a barrel full of rice over his head, something that two men should have had to move. They unpacked the remainder of the boat’s hold, and Sam and Cas wound up sitting on the shore afterwards, letting the warmth of the river lap at their bare ankles. Sam blushed when he realized how little Cas was actually wearing, he hadn’t taken the time to actually look beforehand. Straps of old, salt and sand crusted leather crisscrossed over his scarred and now tanned chest that creaked whenever he moved, peppered with buckles and sheathed blades and containers full of things Sam couldn’t possibly imagine. A simple flap of cloth covered his groin, and barely covered his ass, and Sam would almost feel embarrassed for him if the rest of the people weren’t dressed in a similar fashion, some wearing even less than him.

“How long…how long have you lived here, Cas?” Sam asked.

“I do not know. I have lost track of the days. The nights are…different here. And what of Dean? You were at the Empire, did you…have you learned anything?”

“When I was captured by the Empire, I heard a few soldiers talking about him.”

“What did they say?”

“I’m not…I’m not sure you want to know.”

“Sam-”

“Just know that he’s alive, okay? That’s more than we could ever hope for.”

“Alive is not enough!” Cas growled. Sam was unused to actually hearing his brother’s rage out loud other than animalistic cries.

“What did they say?” Cas asked again, quieter, deadlier.

“He is being…used, by Michael, the ruler of the Empire.”

Cas furrowed his brow and looked down.

“Used? I do not…”

“Please,” Sam whispered, pained, “don’t make me spell it out for you…”

Cas clenched his fists, and the very air seemed to change around the pair of them. Sam knew full well by then that Cas knew what he was insinuating.

“What happened, Cas? Why didn’t you come home?”

“You know why we could not.”

“Because of what you told me? About Lisa?”

“The soldiers from the Empire killed Lisa, we could not go back, there were too many.”

“But no word? No sign? I thought you both to be _dead_ , Cas. Do you understand that?”

“We could not return, not even for you, Sam. You had wanted to keep me there, we had to run or face death.”

Sam ran a hand through his hair, exasperated. Cas squared his shoulders and looked up at him, still so much smaller than his older brother, even more so, now, without his wings.

“We ran north, with Girl. We were alone, we were safe for a time. Then we came across people by the Great River. They were from the Empire, we spent too long there, by the time we left soldiers had found the village.”

“Because of you…” Sam breathed. Did Cas even know what he was? Who he was?

“Yes. They were searching for me. And because of me those people died.”

“Because you are the heir to the throne, Cas!” Sam hissed under his breath, suddenly wary of where they were. These people were hardly sympathetic to the Empire as it was, and if they found that one of their adopted own was the heir to the Holy Throne, they would surely be killed.

Cas stared at him then guffawed, standing to walk back to the collection of tents with his shoulders shaking from mirth. It was a dry, wheezing sort of laughter, and Sam found he didn’t like it at all. He ran after his brother.

“Cas, wait!” He shouted, but Gabriel stepped in front of him and shook his head. Sam stared after him and sighed. He would have to get used to Cas again. So long without him made him forget how Cas was normally. He was difficult, cold, and even without words snide. This Cas was no different, just more…verbal. And without Dean as a buffer, he was even worse.

“Let him breathe for a bit, Sam. He has one of his brothers back, yes, but no offense, you’re not the one he wants.”

“Don’t you want to talk to him too, Gabriel? You’ve been looking for him longer than I have.”

“Sam!”

Both Gabriel and Sam turned to see Cas beckoning them from the front flap of a tent. He looked exasperated, but at least he wanted to talk after all. Once they were safely stowed inside the cool confines of the tent—judging by the blankets and cushions and things scattered around it was Cas’s dwelling—Cas sat down cross-legged and Sam and Gabriel did the same.

“I am sorry, Sam. Such things are too much too take in, and so much has happened, too much to describe.”

“But you know, don’t you? Know what you are?”

“I know many things now, Sam. But there is much that _you_ don’t know.”

“Your wings?” Sam prompted, inching closer. Cas smiled and chuckled.

“I have gained and lost a great many things. Perhaps…” Cas trailed off and clenched his hands. “Perhaps it would be better to just show you.”

Sam saw Cas lean forward to place two fingers on both his forehead and Gabriel’s, then the world went white.

 

_After the ceremony, after he cut and burned away his precious wings, things changed in his head. He suddenly knew things he had never known before, the feel of the water, its smell, when storms were coming, how deep the ocean was, how high the sky was, how far down the tree roots grew, how long the River Rock people had lived and thrived, how old Lucifer was. He could read the markings on his newly inked flesh, he knew the taste of blood, he knew the scent of fertility though he had never laid with a woman before—yet somehow he had—and he knew when children would be born and if they would be male or female. All this he knew and more._

_He had blackouts. He would come to and a predator would be retreating from a squealing child and its mother in the shallows. He would come to with his mouth around Lucifer’s cock, and he would scramble away, choking, ignoring the answering heat in his loins and Lucifer’s mirth. He would come to with his face pressed against a woman’s stomach, round with child. He would be caressing the stretched flesh, murmuring a low chant he didn’t understand, yet he did, and he had to fight the urge to purr aloud when he felt the woman’s hands holding his head steady, running them through his thick hair._

_When it happened the first time he had stood quickly, alarmed and ashamed with an apology quick on his lips when Lucifer appeared behind him, shoving him back down with the cryptic command to finish it. He felt the words come to him, albeit slower than before, and Lucifer did not let him stand till he was finished, at least until no more words pounded in his skull, demanding to be set loose._

_He knew the words and the actions weren’t his own. After the ceremony, after connecting himself to the River Rock people in more ways than the flesh, he knew those actions belonged to the Other, the old gods his father had once told him about. He thought of them as childhood stories, nothing more, but he found himself believing for the first time._

_Lucifer was no help. He was, as always, full of riddles and gilded language. But the people loved him, far more than they should have given the fact that he was still and outsider. He knew now as he knew those countless other things that being an outsider had been significant, just as Lucifer had been an outsider before._

_Cas was still an outsider, even after he had stayed long enough for Girl to get her first tattoo; a few lines on her shoulder, one block for five years and two thin lines, short lines for her other two years of life._

_Cas’s markings were more extensive, and painful, and more meaningful, and only now was he beginning to truly understand them, especially the trail that began over his navel and ended down in his groin, wrapping around the root of his cock. It meant Life Giver, and he was beginning to wonder its necessity, given that Lucifer had no such marking, let alone any other in the village. He had asked Lucifer of its meaning, but Lucifer had merely laughed and stated that he would learn soon enough. Cas hated the fact that Lucifer’s laugh made him warm on the inside and made him want to roll over and expose himself for Lucifer’s perusal and use. To submit. He did not want to submit. The very idea had him growling aloud. He had never submitted, not even to his mate, his precious Dean. He was sure Dean was still out there somewhere, alive and waiting for him even after so long._

_And here he was, stuck and rotting in a village miles from anywhere, waking to find himself lip-locked with a man and with his cock thrust deep inside a woman’s molten core._

_He was sullied, he was ruined, he was no longer truly Dean’s, but a niggling voice in his head told him he had been planning for this for years. Who cares if he got his dick wet in the process? Nothing mattered till he had Dean in his arms again._

_The air thrummed when he thought of Dean at night._

_Those nights he would wander in the stars, searching, or he would find himself with his hands on his cock, imagining Dean’s hands in his stead. It was when he began actively seeking his own pleasure with thoughts of Dean filling his head that the visions stopped, as well as the blackouts, and memories of the previous episodes flooded his brain like the spring rains. It was then that Lucifer came to him and told him the truth, about everything._

_“I have been grooming you,” Lucifer said one night when the skies were clear and the noises of the river were calm._

_“For what?” Cas asked, thumbing a smaller trail of marks on his upper left thigh that meant Dream Walker._

_“To become one with the Other. I believe that’s what they called them in the north. The gods of the Godless,” Lucifer laughed. “There is no place in this world that is godless.”_

_“Where they hold Dean,” Cas snarled, “that place is godless.”_

_Lucifer hummed and lounged on his bed of cushions and Cas soon found himself pressed close to the notorious riddle-maker’s side. Lucifer had a scorching hand on his stomach, over Life Giver, and he could have sworn he saw the ink glow beneath Lucifer’s fingertips, sending a throb through his blood._

_“Truer words were never spoken,” Lucifer uttered in agreement, and Cas squirmed when Lucifer’s hand pressed harder over his flat stomach._

_“You shouldn’t be so uncomfortable around me, Cas, if you remember everything we have done before…together.”_

_Cas did remember, flashes and pleasured quakes in his mind and flesh, memories of being taken._

_“A violation,” Cas hissed, struggling to release himself from Lucifer’s grasp only to find that his body would not listen to his commands. His tattoos burned and his limbs ached and grew heavy, lethargic._

_“To you, maybe, but not to the Other inside of you.”_

_“What do you…?”_

_“Surely you are not this dim? The Other wouldn’t have chosen you if that were so. Surely you felt it? The moment you stepped foot into the river you belonged to Them.”_

_“But there is no proof.”_

_“Think of everything you’ve done in this tribe since the ceremony. Do you honestly mean to tell me that you went around in your past life blessing unborn children?”_

_Cas fought for a rebuke, but it was as if his mouth had been sewn shut and his words were taken back._

_“And your voice,” Lucifer hounded, “surely you found it odd that you, one who had been without words since birth, would then suddenly be able to speak? You shouldn’t be able to speak as well as you do, and you know that. Simply listening to another man talk for years is not adequate.”_

_Lucifer sighed and the cover over Cas’s voice and mouth slipped away. Cas gasped and scrambled away, plastering himself against the far edge of the tent._

_“What are you? What is this place?”_

_“The question you should be asking is what are_ you _?”_

_“Th-this isn’t about me,” Cas balked, stammering as he once did._

_“But it is about you, cousin!” Lucifer crowed, rising to his feet. “You are the Dream Walker, the Life Giver, the River Runner, the Beast…you are all these things and more, Cas! To your enemies you are the Unholy, to the River Rock people and all other free peoples you are the Other in the flesh. You who runs with wolves and shines like the stars. You are everything, Castiel.”_

_Cas gaped up at Lucifer, his chieftain, his self-proclaimed cousin. Truth laced his words, he felt it in his bones, the bones that he could feel in his dreams, the ones he burned from his back._

_“You were born for this, Castiel.” Lucifer continued in a softer voice, kneeling to look him in the eye. Their eyes were the same. He smiled ruefully, stood, and walked to the front of the tent, pausing to look back._

_“Rest for the night, Castiel. I apologize, I’ve said too much, and yet too little still. Rest, you will not walk tonight.”_

_A dreamless sleep, yes, that was indeed what Cas had been longing for many months. Cas nodded his thanks in a numb haze, barely registering when Girl came into the tent some hours later, burrowing under his arm to rest close to his chest for warmth. Not even her disturbance ruined the magic. True to Lucifer’s word, Cas did not walk endlessly in the skies that night. He was glad. The moon was new that night, and the stars were dark behind storm clouds. He would have been lightless and lost._

Sam came to with Cas pressed close to his side, breathing deep in slumber. He head was killing him, throbbing in time with his heart, pounding in his ears. He felt as if gallons of salt water had been poured down his throat, and his stomach didn’t feel much better.

“What you’re feeling? It wears off, eventually,” Sam heard Gabriel croak from across the tent. Sam groaned, he wanted to get up and walk off…whatever it was that happened to him, but Cas had an arm and a leg slung over his body, holding him close. Sam blushed when he felt his hardness press against Cas’s leg, and Gabriel must have noticed that as well, and he laughed.

“That’ll wear off too, Sam.”

“What…what happened?”

“An illusion,” another voice answered from the front of the tent. Sam turned to see a native enter the tent. He was as dark as Cas, though Sam could tell he wasn’t naturally born that way like the villagers. He had extensive tattoos like Cas had, and he recognized him from Cas’s memory that he had somehow witnessed.

“You’re Lucifer?” Sam asked, propping himself up on pillows since he couldn’t leave Cas’s side.

“Yes, welcome to River Rock, brother of Castiel. Sam, was it?”

Sam nodded and Cas stirred and held him tighter when he tried to move.

“Yes, undoubtedly what you just saw was an illusory version of dear Cas’s memories, transferred from his mind to yours via a psychic connection. I told him not to attempt it—he could have killed himself, you know—but he did all the same.”

“And now we’re all caught up with everyone’s story, except yours, Lucy.” Gabriel sniped.

“Pleasure to see you again, brother.” Lucifer sneered, sitting as close to Sam and Cas as possible, leaving Gabriel alone, hunched over the smoldering fire pit.

“Likewise.”

“Whoa, wait, brother? Gabriel, you didn’t mention that your brother was here.”

“It might have slipped my mind.” Gabriel replied, still glaring at Lucifer who was desperately attempting to stifle a grin.

“I don’t know how it could have; I’ve been here for years, Gabriel.” Lucifer replied.

“Maybe I’ve just been avoiding you.”

“And why, dear brother, would you possibly want to do that?”

“You know why.” Gabriel sighed.

“How is Cas still sleeping? Such a lay about.” Lucifer chided, effectively sidestepping Gabriel’s questions. He reached around Sam’s waist to flick Cas’s cheek. Cas grumbled in annoyance and tightened his grip, nearly smothering Sam in the process.

“Ow, c’mon Cas, wake up.” Sam huffed, gingerly pulling his brother’s arms away. Cas whined one last time before his eyes fluttered open, a breathtaking flash of ice blue that Sam couldn’t look away from. Cas frowned at their closeness, but didn’t pull away immediately. He stretched his body in one sinuous, easy movement, sighing against Sam’s neck before he leaned up on one elbow to glare at Lucifer over Sam’s shoulder.

“What, what is it?”

“Perhaps now is the best time to discuss how you plan on going to the Empire to retrieve your long lost brother, your mate.” Lucifer prompted.

Cas extricated himself from Sam’s gangly limbs, not commenting or batting an eye at his flagging erection.

“There is no discussion, I am going.” Cas said.

“Yes, but how?” Lucifer countered with a chuckle. Cas’s cheeks reddened, only slightly.

“Haven’t thought that far ahead.”

“As usual.”

“It does not matter,” Cas said, sitting up and crossing his legs. “However I make it there, or what I do there, I _will_ get him back.”

“I don’t doubt your resolve, Cas, I am merely suggesting that you plan this ahead.”

 “What are you suggesting I do?” Cas asked slowly.

Lucifer curled his lips up into a cruel parody of a smile. Sam didn’t like the looks of it one bit.

“I have just the idea, and you will have to do exactly what I tell you to do.”

 

Michael had never seen such a host of savages in his life. They were everywhere it seemed, crowding the walkway with their loud callousness. They were all dark from lifetimes under the sun, with dark hair in wild tangles if they were female, and closely shorn if male. Almost all of the savages, including the young, had turquoise ink in elaborate designs on their bodies, more so if they were older. The one in the front of the procession, undoubtedly, had the most extensive designs, swirling around his limbs like water. Bands of blue wrapped around his provocatively exposed, muscular thighs and biceps, one even drew attention to his stomach and barely covered groin. Michael’s hands clenched at his sides. The savage was a fine specimen indeed. He more sauntered than walked, with a permanent smarmy grin on his face. Michael wondered how much teasing it would take to turn that smirk into a desperately pleading, swollen pair of lips. When he drew closer, Michael could see that the savage’s eyes were as blue as his markings, electric, and if it had been dark Michael could easily imagine them glowing. Like a wolf in the night.

“Welcome, emissary from the west. How is my dear cousin, Lucifer? He must be unwell to send another in his stead.” Michael greeted, and couldn’t help but slip in the slight at the end. He held no love for his cousin, but if he could win his uneasy affection through this emissary, at least, he would be in good standing.

“Unwell, no; unwilling to make this useless trip, yes.” The savage snorted, succinctly. Michael blinked, unused to such crassness from a lower class citizen, especially from a savage. He might be an emissary from Lucifer’s lands in the west, but he was no capital-dweller. Dean stirred at his side, causing his chain to clink against the floor. The sound was innocuous enough, he almost didn’t notice, but he looked up to see the emissary’s eyes boring holes through his bound slave. He knew the west did not believe in slavery. They completed all tasks on their own. Everything built was built with sweat on their backs and an ache in their feet. A noble ideal, Michael knew, but again they were savages, they would have no concept of such things.

“Well, I’m sure the journey was long and hard, please, come inside and we shall find you and your host accommodations for your stay.” Michael ushered the man in, placing a genial hand on his shoulder and nearly flinched away. The man felt as if he were on _fire_. Michael found he liked the heat and he wound his arm around the smaller man’s shoulders. He smiled easily and relaxed into Michael’s hold, languorously walking where Michael led him. Michael enjoyed his lighter frame pressed to his, muscled and firm, pure heat, relaxed and trusting in comparison with Dean’s frigid reciprocations as of late. He supposed he missed a willing partner, the one he had lost after uncovering Dean’s plot.

Michael saw to it that the emissary’s travelling companions found rooms, and insisted that he speak with the man a while longer. He led him to his rooms, keeping a hand on the back of his neck, fingers straying into his rich dark locks. They sipped wine and laughed for a while, with Dean chained to the wall like a good mutt. Michael noticed the emissary eyeing him at every lull in the conversation, and he didn’t see disgust, or even pity. He saw some form of lust, though it was more…tender. Perhaps the savage desired his slave.

“So, you have come at my cousin’s bidding. What could he possibly require of me that a simple letter would not suffice?”

“Letters, your grace, are rather difficult to deliver… _intact_ from River Rock. We are quite a distance from merely the _border_ of your Empire, let alone the capital.”

“Quite true, but again, what does cousin Lucifer wish to bring to my attention?”

The emissary crossed his legs, toying with the fringe of his boot coverings.

“He wishes that you would keep away from River Rock. Do not send any soldiers to our borders, do not send any ambassadors, and most importantly of all…” The man ceased his play and fixed Michael with an alarmingly intense gaze, “keep your gods to yourself, and we shall keep to our own.”

Michael sipped his wine coolly, hiding his grimace. Lucifer had always staunchly avoided confrontation with the Empire after his exile, and Michael had been loath to recognize his meager holdings in the west as its own independent establishment and simply not a colony of the Empire. Lucifer, it seemed, wanted to sever any and all remaining ties with the Empire, and sent this thoroughly distracting man to do it.

“Tell me, do you worship his gods?” Michael asked, watching the man’s face closely for any sign of treachery. Lucifer’s stance on religion was loose at best, and Michael had never recognized his new gods of nature and elements. The Empire only recognized the one true God, and no others. The man raised a dark brow and gestured to his marked body.

“Surely you know that only the priests of our gods are marked in such an extensive fashion.”

“So you are a priest, then?”

“A loose term, one that I think you would understand better than what I truly am.”

“And what is that, priest?”

“I am a vessel, a voice for our gods, the Other. Through me they carry out their will.”

“Truly?” Michael asked, not attempting to hide the amusement from his voice. The man smirked, a thing utterly feral marring his features, all teeth and vicious intent.

“I could show you if you doubt me so.”

Michael swallowed harshly when he imagined a dark throb echoing around the room. The light seemed to dim, and Dean whimpered from his corner, rustling and pressing closer to the ground. Ringing filled his ears, and he swore he saw the man’s markings beginning to glow in a sickly, unearthly light.

“That won’t be necessary,” Michael laughed uneasily, clearing his throat, and almost as soon as the discord started it ceased. Dean sighed and slumped against the ground, curling and rolling to face the wall. The emissary smiled and uncrossed his legs, tension dissipating from his frame as easily as it had appeared.

“So you are called Michael?” The emissary asked as he reclined on the cushioned lounge, adjusting his strapped on furs to double as pillows. He looked positively decadent, a savage beauty framed by the bleached and fluffed furs on his shoulders and arms, and Michael wanted to partake.

“Yes,” Michael nodded, licking his lips, mouth strangely dry when the savage unstrapped his coverings, pushing them slowly off his shoulders and down his arms. “And what should I call you?”

The man paused and his mouth hung open, glistening and red and dark and Michael had to cross his legs to stop himself from vaulting forward to take him then and there.

“Emmanuel,” he finally answered, dropping the furs onto the floor at last, baring his marked chest and arms. He stood slowly with all the barely restrained grace of a predator, reminding Michael of the great cats he had seen in a visiting troubadour’s group, and before he could protest—like he knew he should have—the man was sliding into his lap, wrapping his scorching body around his to take his lips, devouring his mouth with a hunger that only Michael thought _he_ possessed. Michael sucked on the man’s tongue, running his hands over those miles of exposed tanned flesh, gripping and squeezing and pinching, eliciting pleasured gasps from Emmanuel’s puffed lips. Emmanuel’s chuckle was dark and rich like the earth when he slid from Michael’s lap, sinking down to his knees between his spread legs. Michael wondered how many men had Emmanuel like this, on his knees and willing.

“I would partake of your flesh this night, Michael,” Emmanuel purred, “but I am afraid I am far too exhausted to engage in such acts, for now.” He crawled back and gathered his furs and belts, quick as a flash, and then he was at the door, eyes sparkling in mischief. “Perhaps you could convince your little whore there to help you with your _problem_.” And then he was gone. Michael shifted, gaping at the door. He stood, in a daze, and made himself ready for bed, yanking Dean’s chain so he would crawl into bed next to him. The nights, he pondered with a shudder as he grasped at Dean’s heated flesh, were getting colder.

 

Cas screamed and threw an ornate vase at the wall, not satisfied even when it exploded into hundreds of chalky pieces and rained down onto the floor in ruin. He kicked over tables and chairs and shattered every mirror in the room and when there was nothing else to destroy he hit the wall with his bloodied knuckles and sunk to the floor, sobbed and gasped for air and tried to breathe through his sorrow and the pain in his chest.

“Dean,” He whimpered to himself, grasped at his chest and pushed against his bones to the brink of agony, “Dean, I could _touch_ you…so close…”

_‘Silence you little fool, would you have us killed?’_

“He was there, he was _close_ , I was next to him, feet away…”

_‘Unless you are hiding a bear’s strength in these puny arms, we cannot break men’s metal. We cannot break Dean’s chain.’_

Cas sobbed and let his head fall back against the wall with a dull thump. His attendants from River Rock cowered in the corners of their rooms, content to avoid him till he had need of them. They feared him now.

_‘As they should,’_ the Other in him purred, _‘for we are more than they can ever hope to be, you and I. We are different, special; we are even different from brother Lucifer.’_

Cas did not care for the moments when the Other made itself known to him. Most of the time he could go about his day without noticing it, and those days were good. But on days like this, in the moments where all he wanted was silence, the thing decided it wanted to strike up a conversation.

_‘You are beautiful, my sweet thing, he will want you. Already the seeds of lust have been planted in his loins; I could smell it on him when we left.’_ The Other crooned, voice a syrupy echo in his head, as thick as molasses. _‘There may come a time, very soon, where he will invite you into his bed. You must take that chance, my heart, and convince the wretch to allow Dean to lay with you as well. Surely a man such as him would salivate over the thought.’_

Cas grumbled and stood from the floor, wiping traces of powder and mirror shards from his skin. He licked the blood from his knuckles as he walked to the window and he looked out onto the city below. They were inside the Basilica, but it would have been more prudent, perhaps, to call it a fortress. Guards were posted at every door, women and children milled about in the streets laughing and frolicking and he dared not harm a single hair on their heads. The Empire had weapons the likes of which he had never seen before. Dean and John had guns, Cas had seen them in use before, but these were no guns, these were horrifying weapons of death and destruction. They were cannons, he had been told, and they were as menacing as they were effective. The Basilica had not fallen to enemy forces since its creation. He shuddered and turned away.

What good would come of him being here? If he could not spirit his Dean away in the night then why had he come? Lucifer would have been far smoother in his wooing, Cas thought with a grimace, and he would have easily been invited to Michael’s bed the very same evening. The dark part of Cas boiled at the thought of Lucifer touching what was his, but when he looked down at his body, at the blue marks over his flesh and the phantom traces of Lucifer’s touch…

Cas sighed and turned back to the room, shutting the windows and drawing the curtains. He stretched out onto the bed covered in soft linens and furs of creatures foreign to him, and he didn’t bother removing his travel clothes covered in dust and sweat. He closed his eyes and hoped for a dreamless sleep, but he knew it would not be, for already visions of Dean’s chained body and bruised skin plagued his thoughts and he whimpered in agony, turning onto his side.

He would make Michael regret ever setting eyes on Dean. Michael had known only the heat and comfort of perpetual summer here in the Empire. Cas would bring him the cold; he would bring him the sharp winds and the howling wolves and the ravaging conditions of winter. He would, he swore so himself with fervor when he mutilated his body to serve a deity not his own.

_‘Shush…’_ the Other soothed, and he felt hands like water rush over his burning shoulders, calming the fires in his flesh. _‘Do not fret, my child. You did well. While he did not pursue you this night, there will be many others, as many as it takes. And remember, child, he must want it, drive him to the edge of his tenuous restraint, then you will take him, and take your mate at last. Keep saying the things I tell you to say, act the way I act, and I promise you Dean will be yours again soon.  I will keep your mind dark for the night, my love. Sleep now, and don’t dream.’_

Cas was lulled by susurrus sounds of wings and whispers and soft music made from harps and the reeds in the river, of the burbling of streams and fish swimming in the depths of the deepest oceans. He let himself sink down with them, to the deep, cool recesses of the earth, and he slept.

 

Uriel became aware of the Basilica’s visitors quite abruptly the next day. The leader of the ragtag group of savages bumped into him in the hall and snarled like an animal, stalked around him and continued on his way without a single parting word. Uriel had blinked, pondered the strange man for a moment, and then walked on. He couldn’t concern himself with the minds of heathens, and even he knew not why they were present at all in the Basilica. Despite its current corruption, the Basilica had once been a place of healing and peace, not an epicenter to war and famine. Michael’s people were dying, lamented Uriel, and there was nothing he could do to stop it.

The savage was a strange man, to be sure. When next he saw him, Uriel noticed he spoke in half words and truths, and he had just a hint of an accent that Uriel could not place. Perhaps he once spoke the Old language of the savages, that would make sense given his priesthood. How Uriel longed to speak with the man, to hear of his duties, his magic. He had oft heard tale of the things a man such as he was capable of, but had never seen it with his own eyes. The next day the man seemed to be in better spirits, and was introduced to Uriel as Emmanuel, though that name held little truth on the other’s tongue.

“Tell me, Emmanuel, is that truly your name? It hardly seems fitting for one such as yourself.”

“That is the truth, Lord Uriel; Emmanuel is not my true name, though it is far easier on the tongue than my title.”

“Tell me, so that I may attempt it.”

Emmanuel smiled coyly, sidling closer to nudge against his side, winding his arm with Uriel’s to lead him away from the main hall.

“ _They tell me that you can be trusted, human_.” Emmanuel spoke in a multi-faceted voice and Uriel flinched. It was unearthly and terrifying, it sounded as if a man, a woman and a child were all speaking at once. It sounded like real power.

“ _They say that you aided me once, long ago, when I first fled this place with the golden man._ ”

“Golden man? I’m afraid I don’t…”

“ _Be silent_ ,” The thing hissed, and two soldiers rounded the corner on the way to the barracks, glancing at them suspiciously before continuing on their way.

“ _You already know of what I speak, and you keep a picture of this body, even now, in your pocket._ ”

Uriel’s hand strayed to the locket in his inner robes, scarcely believing it to be true.

“Castiel…?”

“But you must continue to call me Emmanuel, Lord Uriel,” Castiel spoke with a grin, the otherworldliness gone from his voice. “I cannot afford to be revealed when I have finally come so close.”

“Close to taking back what is rightfully yours?” Uriel asked excitedly under his breath. Castiel regarded him coolly before taking his fathomless gaze away again.

“In a manner.”

“But surely you have come to take back the throne?” Uriel continued though Castiel’s grip tightened in warning.

“If that is what comes of my being here, then so be it.” He snapped.

“If not the throne, then why have you come?” Uriel asked, confused.

“I have come for my beloved, and if the kingdom must fall for me to have him then it shall fall.”

“Your beloved?”

“Surely you have seen the man Michael keeps chained like a pet? The man…he is a _man_ , not a beast, he is _mine_ , and I will have him back, my Dean…”

Uriel knew the one, the pitiful thing constantly kept by Michael’s side. He had to have been older than Michael, yet he was subjugated and less than human in Michael’s eyes. Uriel had seen the man—Dean—only a handful of times, and he pitied him, truly. He had never spoken to him directly, Uriel supposed few had. Michael kept him on a short leash, literally and figuratively.

“Your intentions are noble, Emmanuel, if you truly plan on stealing away with your prize,” Uriel whispered, “but imagine what you could do if you took it all away from Michael, not just your lover.”

“Dean is far more than a lover to me, don’t presume to know otherwise.”

“The point, my friend, you are missing it.”

“I care not, old fool. Dean is mine, and I shall take back what is mine.”

Emmanuel—Castiel, his beautiful, _horrid_ Castiel—shoved away from Uriel’s side and vanished around the corner.

 

Sam was growing uneasy. He hadn’t wanted to be left behind with the warring siblings Gabriel and Lucifer. Many of their arguments seemed petty on the surface, but Sam could tell there was something more that Gabriel wasn’t telling him, something important. It was the reason why Gabriel forbade Sam from accompanying Cas to the Empire, to be sure that his family would be rid of the tyrant Michael forever.

He would have seen to it if Cas hadn’t the will, or the strength. Cas had changed. He was strange and new, both loving and cruel.

But Cas had left him with Girl. He said he trusted no other with his child, not even the villagers, though Sam felt that Cas was right not to trust them. He had dreaded caring for a child at first, but he swiftly learned that Girl could take care of herself quite well. None of the villagers bothered her, or tried to hurt her. In fact, a great number of them seemed to avoid all contact with her, though Girl didn’t seem to notice.

Sam was concerned for her wellbeing, but only slightly. At least the other children still played with her. She was like them after all; dark and as quick as a minnow in the water. She was unruly, unkempt, crude, and so much like Cas that Sam almost couldn’t handle it. He was seeing his brother in Dean’s child.

He mourned for Lisa after Cas had told him the truth of that day so long ago in the snow and cold and blood. Cas had few words for the event itself, he probably had no way to describe it, his mind had been so different then; it had been the mind of an animal, not a man. Lisa had been an innocent, sweet woman caught between two opposing forces, fire and snow, and had been lost in the resulting clash. When titans battle, humans are secondary.

He wondered if he would ever be able to return home, to the village, if only to visit the Braedens, to sit them down and explain the entire story from day one. Lisa’s death was unfortunate and heartbreaking, but ultimately not by any fault of Cas’s, or Dean’s.  Sam only thanked god that their child survived, so that she could be raised to live and thrive. He could only imagine how Dean would have reacted if both his wife and unborn child had died that day.

One morning, when mist still clung to the gravelly ground and the chirping of crickets filled the air Sam woke suddenly, with no reason and with no interruption. One moment he was asleep, the other awake. He sat up, blinking the sleep from his eyes and he swiped a hand over his face and through his dank hair. He hadn’t had a chance to bathe since Cas had left some weeks earlier, and he was beginning to feel it. He stumbled out of the tent, taking note of Girl where she lay, curled up on Cas’s abandoned bed of furs and pillows. He walked to the water’s edge, hearing the gentle lapping of the waves against the shore cut through the almost eerie silence.

River Rock had never been this quiet. Always there had been the squealing of children and grumbling of the old and sick. Sam couldn’t hear anything save the pounding of his blood in his ears and the water against the shore. It was unnatural, and Sam swallowed, instantly on the alert. He reached the water, almost stepping directly into it. He couldn’t see anything through the fog that had gathered over the river, and he squinted out, imagining he saw shapes in the cloudy mass. He shrugged the feeling and pulled his shirt over his head. Just as soon as he took the final step forward, to step into the water he knew would be freezing, but he was resigned to it, a hand shot out from the mist and grabbed onto his shoulder, pulling him back and away from the water.

“What the hell?!” Sam shouted, staggering backward into a solid, warm figure.

“Hush! Or do you want to get us both killed?!” Gabriel hissed. Sam relaxed, but only slightly.

“Seriously though, what the hell?” Sam whispered, following Gabriel’s lead. Gabriel held a finger over his lips and beckoned him to follow. They made their way back into their tent, and Sam was relieved to see Girl still sleeping soundly in the corner.

“Okay,” Gabriel breathed, setting about the tent, gathering their strewn possessions with a feverish intensity. “Okay, Sam, this won’t make much sense now, but you gotta trust me on this. We gotta get outta here.”

“Leave? But we’ve only just arrived.”

“Please, just trust me Sam.”

“Not until you tell me what’s going on.” Sam groused, crossing his arms. He didn’t like being left out of the loop, like so often in his life.

“Please!” Gabriel whipped around, eyes wild and his breaths frantic. “We don’t have time for that now! We have to get out before Lucifer returns.”

“Where did he go?” Sam asked, brows furrowing in confusion. “And why does that even matter anyway?”

Gabriel growled in exasperation and stuffed the remainder of their clothing into a nearby rucksack. He slung it over his shoulder and hurried to the entrance of the tent, peering out, ever cautious, and by then Sam was beginning to feel that dread from earlier creep back up his spine.

“Get Girl,” Gabriel whispered, and this time Sam didn’t hesitate. He bent and lifted Girl up, furs and all, and she hardly even stirred. She complained drowsily, but her eyes barely flickered before she was asleep once again.

“What is going on?” Sam murmured, jostling her a little just to make sure. She didn’t wake. For a moment he was panicked, but Gabriel was quick to appease.

“Don’t worry, I can tell it’s only a spell keeping her asleep, same with everyone else in the village. I foresaw Lucifer attempting something like this and made sure to spike our drinks with go-juice before bed last night.”

“What?”

“Don’t sweat the details, just know that we’re awake and everyone else is asleep and will be for quite a while.”

“Okay, but what does Lucifer have to do with it?”

Gabriel didn’t answer, and beckoned for Sam to follow him out of the tent. They kept to the sides of dwellings, not daring to stray out in the open where they could easily be spotted. The rising sun’s rays were beginning to cut through the fog and it began to fade. Their cover would be gone in a matter of minutes.

“I began to suspect him the moment we arrived in River Rock. When I had left the first time to try and find Castiel, Lucifer had left as well, promising to return to the Empire to ‘claim what was rightfully his’ or something like that. Obviously I wasn’t expecting him back so soon, and so different.”

“He’s different?”

Gabriel coughed out what sounded like a laugh, or more like a chortle.

“Very much so. He didn’t have all those tattoos, and he certainly still had wings, last I checked.”

Sam stopped for a moment and gaped.

“But…but that wasn’t all that long ago! How could he have changed so suddenly? And for what?”

“He has tapped into powers that he has no business meddling in, that’s how.” Gabriel answered and left it at that.

They reached the opposite end of the shore, where they kept the boats, and Sam was just beginning to think that their grand escape had been far too easy. Gabriel must have felt the same; he didn’t relax till they were miles from River Rock in one of their stolen power boats. Girl was still asleep, stowed away safe in the cabin. All Sam wanted to do was sleep with her, he was tired of all the deception and lies, of half-truths and revelations and the whole thing, he was just sick and tired of it. He slumped down on the bottom of the boat and heaved a sigh, putting a hand over his face and leaving it there, even when he felt Gabriel sidle up next to him, plopping down so close that Gabriel’s elbow met painfully with Sam’s hip.

“C’mon, kiddo, cheer up.” Gabriel attempted to console him. “You found your brother, one of them anyway, who’s on his way to the Empire to get your other brother back. Piece of cake, Sam.”

“But it’s…no it’s not!” Sam growled. “Lucifer is…psychotic and just put an entire village of people to sleep, for reasons you’re not telling me. Cas is on his way to the Empire to get Dean, yes, but to the Empire; the place where everyone wants to either kill him or worship him!”

“Sam, if it helps, I couldn’t recognize him, you barely did. He doesn’t…he doesn’t have his wings anymore, he speaks well for someone who couldn’t before. He’ll be fine.”

“Why do I have a hard time believing that?”

“Sam,” Gabriel squeezed his shoulder, “he’ll be fine.”

“I’m sorry I just…I can’t believe that till I see him safe and sound, with Dean.”

“Cas has no ambition, he won’t go to the Empire with grander intentions than stealing Dean back. You don’t need to worry about him.”

“I hope you’re right,” Sam sighed, pulling his hand away to look at Gabriel, at his only friend that—at least he hoped—he could trust. “I really do.”

 

Dean felt a difference in his master’s touch. It remained as harsh, as possessive as before, and yet there was some hesitance in it now, and he didn’t touch him sexually as much as he did before. He held him during the long nights, when he could feel the air growing colder, could feel the hairs on his arm standing on end.

The cold had come for him, just as he knew it would. Michael could fight it, if he could, but it had come all the same. The winter had rolled in, cloying and biting, and Dean was waiting for it. He let it wash over him, like the familiar hands of a lover, clawed and all encompassing, and he waited.

He was almost ignored by Michael, now, and every few days or so he would forget to drug Dean’s meager meals. On those strange, wonderful days of lucidity Dean would stretch out as far as he could over the bed and just feel, and listen, and breathe. He could feel the individual pinpricks of hair from the animal furs strewn around him, he could hear children playing in the street outside his window, he could hear servants scurrying about in the corridors, like mice. He could finally breathe, for once, without the fog in his mind, the fog that made him forget the joys of life.

He could feel his nakedness, and for once feel shame burn hot in his cheeks. He curled onto his side and covered himself, though he wished to welcome the coming cold. Cas wouldn’t want him so exposed to another’s eyes, to another’s hands. But Dean had already been touched, and violated, and ravaged in so many ways he couldn’t even remember. He hated himself, but more so hated Michael for taking him when he was not free for the taking. Dean very much knew who he belonged to. He belonged to Cas, and no other, and while he knew Cas would never touch him like Michael had touched him, he could feel a very real chill of fear creep up his spine. What would Cas do once he had his Dean back? What would he do to Dean, that is?

The door opened behind him and he heard Michael’s voice, and one other, unfamiliar tone. He froze instantly, regretting his decision to leave his back to the door and exposed. He evened and deepened his breaths, feigning sleep in hopes that Michael would leave him to his rest. He kept his eyes gently shut, fighting the urge to open them when he felt two bodies rest on the bed in front of him.

“He is beautiful,” the other said, voice a deep rasp that echoed in Dean’s chest.

“Indeed he is. A treasure from the middle lands, I don’t let others touch him often.”

He felt a hand, sweltering in temperature, alight on the line of his hip and his breath hitched. He cursed inwardly and fought to calm his heartbeat when the hand squeezed and then moved down to stroke over his thigh.

“You must make an exception then, for me.” The man purred.

“Oh?” Michael breathed, and Dean knew that tone for what it was; dangerous, possessive. Dean didn’t know who the man was who had so boldly defied Michael, but Dean found himself praying that, for once, Michael would forget his rage. The unknown man hummed a listless tune, leaning over till his weight was draped over Dean’s waist. Michael didn’t say anything for a long while, and Dean waited with baited breath, forgetting his ruse for the moment.

“Very well,” Michael replied flippantly. “He doesn’t respond as easily as he once did, when I first brought him into my bed, but you may take your pleasure from him if you desire.”

“I shall,” the man replied, and Dean felt a hand dip down between his legs. He fought the urge to squirm.

“I would stay but, unfortunately, I have some business to attend to.”

“Don’t let us keep you,” the man murmured, mouthing at Dean’s earlobe. He didn’t say anything, or do anything else till Dean heard Michael leave the room.

“Dean.”

This time he couldn’t help but flinch.

“Dean, open your eyes for me, please.”

“What…?”

Dean opened his eyes and turned around. His brain took a few moments to catch up with his eyes. He couldn’t breathe, he couldn’t think, he couldn’t do anything but lie there with his heart in his throat, stricken dumb and mute by the sight of his love, his companion, his _everything_.

“C-Cas?” Dean rasped, recognizing his mate even through the strange markings on his flesh and his newly tanned skin.

“Dean…” Cas replied—speaking, actually _speaking_ —and Dean couldn’t hold back any longer. He forced himself up from the bed and smashed his lips against Cas’s, crying out against his mouth and crushing his body against his. He couldn’t stop himself from gasping Cas’s name over and over as Cas held on, just as tight. Cas was crushing him in his arms, but Dean couldn’t find the wherewithal to care. He was there, he was there in front of him and he was absolutely certain he wasn’t dreaming.

“I can’t believe it…I can’t believe it…” Dean sobbed, burying his face under Cas’s chin, in his neck. “You’re talking…you’re here, I just can’t…I can’t believe it at all…”

Cas soothed him, voice cracking—his _voice_ , Dean could hardly believe it—and he couldn’t stop stroking over Dean’s body.

“Dean, Dean stop for a minute, we need to hurry.”

“Cas…please I need…I need to _feel_ you…”

“Dean no, we have to run now.”

“God _damn_ it…” Dean whined, clenching his hands over Cas’s biceps, mouthing over the curve of his shoulder.

“We have to go now, there is no time. There will be time for talk and…touching later.” Cas responded with a growl in his voice, something that Dean actually recognized as the old Cas, not this new, dark creature with a voice. He responded with a whimper and allowed himself to be pulled upright. He went easily when Cas strode about the room, searching for clothes and anything he could use in their escape.

He dressed Dean quickly, throwing a loose top over his head, pausing only minutely when he saw the dark bruises around his neck, from Michael. He caressed them lightly, humming low in his throat. Dean’s eyes slid closed from the sheer _familiarity_ of the touch. How he longed to feel his mate again, to hold him and love him. Dean pulled away and groped around for a pair of sandals, wiping his eyes, frustrated.

“If I…if I still look like a slave while we escape from the Basilica we’ll look less suspicious,” Dean said as he took off the shirt and wrapped his slave tunic around his shoulders and hips instead. Cas helped him tie it off with a grimace. His jaw was tight and he wouldn’t meet his eyes, Dean knew he was upset. But soon they would be free, and he would be free to wear as much, or as little, as Cas desired of him.

“Okay,” Cas agreed after a tense moment, running his hand up Dean’s bared thigh, “okay but just until we escape. I hate seeing you like this.”

Dean smiled weakly and moved to the door, listening outside for footsteps or voices.

“I’m gonna have to get used to your voice,” he whispered when Cas took his hand.

“I would go silent again if it…made it easier for you.”

“No, no…” Dean breathed, turning to capture Cas’s lips with his. “No, I wouldn’t dream of it. After all, we have decades of one-sided conversations to make up for.”

“Yes,” Cas smiled and nodded.

They left the room, walking down the empty corridor as quickly as they could.

“You talking and all…” Dean started, still whispering, “does that mean you’re not the Unholy Prince Michael was looking for?”

“I have no idea, Dean,” he said, “but until I have proof, I will not believe it to be so.”

Dean tightened his grip on Cas’s hand and pushed open another door, leading to another empty, silent hallway.

“We must be silent and swift as we used to be, brother,” Dean said. “It won’t be long till Michael returns to find us missing, and he will raise the alarm, I’m sure of it.”

“Then predators we must be,” Cas smirked, allowing himself to move through muscle memory, allowed himself to move in a way he hadn’t in so long, the animal in a hunt.

Dean cut through the slave quarters, not even garnering suspicious glances. Dean supposed he had the large amount of savages that stowed away in the slave quarters at night to thank, taking what they wanted of the people there. A slave leading around a savage in secret was hardly suspicious as of late.

He stopped short when he came to the yawning entrance to the slave quarters. A lone guard stood by, watching as various men and women walked by. He turned and saw him and Dean cursed, jerking Cas back to move behind a wall of grain crates.

“Don’t worry,” Cas hissed in his ear as the soldier made no move to chase them, “I have befuddled his senses.”

Dean looked on in confusion as the guard shook his head and leaned back against the wall, staring at his hands vacantly.

“He’ll be like that for an hour at best.”

Dean wanted to ask how he had magicked the guard, how he was capable of all these strange things, yet he knew there was a time and a place for such questions and that time was not now. They wound through the side corridors, running into little resistance, before they found their way to the stables.

“Quickly now,” Dean whispered as he unlatched the stable gates. They entered silently, and the mounts in their stalls whickered softly in greeting. Dean was familiar with these horses; before Michael required his attention in his rooms at all times he had been put to work here, mucking the stalls and brushing the horses. They were majestic creatures, and from what he had seen, swift and agile.

“These two,” Dean said, grabbing the closest stallion’s reigns with one hand, the next with the other. They were Empire mounts, bred and raised for speed and endurance. They would aid them well in their escape.

“No time for tack, or provisions,” Dean hissed when he heard a commotion from the courtyard to the left of the stables. “We’ll have to make do.”

Cas nodded and took one set of reigns from Dean’s hands. They lead the horses out of the gate, immediately mounting and trotting in the shadow of the walls of the Basilica. Cas rode up next to him and Dean could tell he was tense, he was as well. There was no guarantee of how long they had, how soon they would be spotted, and no guarantee if Cas’s magicks would work on everyone they came across.

“There,” Dean pointed to a small gate across the yard. “If we can make it to that gate and out into the city, we will be free. Michael has many enemies beyond these walls, we will blend in well.”

Cas nodded and they quickened their pace, urging their mounts into a loping trot that echoed dully around the clearing. The moment their backs were to the Basilica the alarms blazed loud and harrowing.

“Go!” Dean shouted, urging his horse into a full gallop. Cas wasn’t far behind when Dean came upon the gate, finding it shut and locked tight. He saw and cursed, preparing to bring the horse to a quick stop.

“Keep going!” Cas shouted, and when Dean looked again the gates were buckling in on themselves, as if under thousands of pounds of pressure, before they collapsed with a heaving groan. Dean whooped in triumph when his mount easily leaped over the ragged remains of the gate. He half turned and saw Cas close behind, sweating, but safe and whole. They galloped through the streets of the Empire, eliciting numerous irritated shouts and screams, but Dean could care less. He hadn’t felt so alive in ages.

They rode till the larger, richer homes and shops gave way to deserted streets and ghettos, and then they finally slowed, making their way to the river.

“South,” Cas shouted over the thundering of hooves, “the further south we can travel, the better. We do not stop till the horses cannot go on any longer.”

As much as it pained Dean to do so, he agreed.

 

“What do you mean they’ve gone?!” Michael roared, standing so quickly he knocked his chair back onto the ground.

“Sir, a guard saw them on horses, making way for the west gate. The alarm was raised, but by the time the armed guard got to the gate they had long since fled.”

“And you didn’t think to pursue them?!”

The guard floundered, stammering for a response and Michael snarled, stalking around the corner of his desk to toss the guard at the door.

“Must I do everything myself?!”

 

After sundown, closer to midnight, Dean and Cas were forced to stop. Dean winced in sympathy when their horses crumpled down onto the ground, sides heaving and glistening with sweat. He stroked over their noses, cooing gently to calm them. Cas placed a hand against the back of his neck and Dean looked up at him, leaning against the warmth and strength he felt in his mate’s hand alone.

They were miles from the Basilica, only sparse forestry and smaller plant life surrounded them, all they could hear was the rushing of the river, and the birds and insects of the wilderness. They were sounds Dean relished and embraced. He would rather listen to the incessant clicking of a cicada over Michael’s breathing. He would rather smell the dank, brackish scent of river water than the flowery oils he was forced to cover himself in. He wanted dirt, he wanted grit, he wanted sweat and heat, and now that he was free, now that he was with Cas, he could finally have those things.

“Come, let them be for the night.” Cas insisted, tugging on Dean’s shoulder. Dean nodded and stood, giving the exhausted animals one last glance before they made their way to the tree line. Cas fashioned them a resting spot from his furs and the beds of shed pine needles on the ground. Cas settled down, beckoning Dean to follow. Dean bit his lip and sunk down to his knees, looming over Cas, feeling too exposed and foolish. Cas placed his hands on Dean’s thighs and he flinched, closing his eyes and just breathing, remembering that it was Cas between his legs and not Michael.

“Dean…?” Cas murmured, squeezing him lightly with a frown.

“I’m…I’m okay, Cas, I just…”

“You don’t need to say anything, Dean. I know.”

“Cas…”

“You don’t need to do anything either, Dean. I won’t force you, I’m not like _him_.” Cas snarled. Dean shuddered at his tone. He was right to think that Cas would be angry, but he couldn’t help but think that some of that anger was directed towards him as well.

“Hey,” Cas whispered, leaning up to place soft kisses against his fluttering eyelids. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry we were separated at the river, I’m sorry you were ever taken by that fiend. I’m sorry he ever touched you.” He murmured.

“It isn’t your fault, Cas, it was never your fault.” Dean whimpered, placing his lips against the top of Cas’s head, breathing him in, remembering the smell of him that he never really forgot. All those times Michael touched him, this was the scent he remembered and held onto like a lifeline. Cas wound his hands around his waist, tightening his grip as he burrowed his head into Dean’s chest. They remained like that, together and inseparable for hours, Dean kneeled over his love and Cas underneath him, illuminated by the midnight moon.

When Cas pulled away and caressed his face, pulling him down to capture his lips delicately, hesitantly, Dean went willingly. This was what he wanted, the familiar, the warmth, the strength that Cas gave him simply by _being_ , by existing. Cas fell back against the ground, stirring the pine needles around his head and Dean laid himself down on top of him, breathing and trying to stay calm. But Cas didn’t try to do anything else, he just held Dean close to his side, warm enough for the both of them, and Dean fell asleep to the sound of Cas’s heartbeat and the sounds of the river.

When they woke the next morning the horses were gone. Cas told him not to worry, that they probably wandered off into the night. Dean frowned but didn’t dwell on it, they could manage well enough on their own. They had put those poor beasts through enough.

“What’s the plan?” Dean asked, stretching and groaning in pleasure. He felt so well rested, for the first time in a long time. Cas grinned and brushed pine needles from Dean’s hair.

“We head south, back to the middle lands…home. But first we must head to River Rock.”

“River Rock?”

“The village where I live now. Girl is there…”

Dean froze. As horrible as it was, he had forgotten about his daughter.

“Is she…”

“She doesn’t know about you,” Cas murmured. “I couldn’t tell her…I didn’t know how.”

“That’s…that’s okay, Cas. Really, it’s fine. She deserves better than the memory of a father that wanted nothing to do with her.”

“I think you would like her now. She is…she is like you.” Cas smiled ruefully. Dean laughed and walked out into the sun, imagining how the river water would feel against his dirt covered skin. He stripped off his pitiful excuse for clothing and stepped into the lazily churning water. It was cold, but it was invigorating. He quickly submerged himself, loving the instant shock of cold through his limbs, killing his morning erection instantly. He didn’t want it anyway, and he didn’t feel like taking care of it with his own hands. Michael had ruined that for him. He resurfaced and heard sounds from down the shore.

“There he is! After the savage!”

Instantly he dropped onto his knees, dipping beneath the water. He heard muted shouts, the thundering of blood in his ears, and then a body splashed into the water next to him. He jerked back, but the dead eyes of the Empire soldier stared up at the surface of the water, never to see the sun again. Dean pulled the body on top of his, searching it for weapons he could use. There was a small knife tucked into the left boot and Dean took it, blinking the soldier’s blood out of his eyes before he pushed to the surface.

He stayed low at first, watching Cas successfully fell another soldier, seeing yet another on the ground, top half under the water of the river. There were more on horseback that were hanging back, watching, and he was shocked to see Michael among them. He dipped under the water again, following the body as it drifted with the current, towards Michael and his soldiers. He watched the dark mass of the soldiers through the water, staying under long after his lungs burned and his body screamed for oxygen. He was well past them now and he surfaced, gasping and surging towards the bank. He sprinted toward the backs of the soldiers, grasping the knife tight and at the very last second he launched himself at Michael’s back, tackling him to the ground with a feral yell.

The soldiers scattered with panicked cries and Dean saw Cas set upon them, a blue streak splattered with the red of their enemies. He was free to deal with Michael on his own. Michael bucked and cursed and tried to fling sand into Dean’s eyes, but he was too fast, he leapt to his feet and shoved his heel down onto the man’s neck, grinding down with relish.

“It’s time for you to die, you piece of shit.” Dean growled, spitting bloody water onto the sand near Michael’s reddened face and the man grimaced in disgust. Dean crouched, foot still on Michael’s throat.

“I’m going to tear you apart,” Dean promised. “I will become the wolf you named me. I will _bathe_ in your _blood_.”

“I should have killed you when I had the chance.” Michael forced out, jaw tight.

“You should have left us alone.” Dean countered, kneeling again, plunging the knife into Michael’s stomach, slowly. Michael’s eyes flew wide and he gurgled in pain.

“I can’t…I can’t die like _this_ …” He gasped, sounding almost incredulous.

“But you are, Michael.” Dean whispered. “And nothing about this end appeases me.”

Dean watched his eyes fade, felt his last breaths soft against his face. He let his forehead drop onto Michael’s, felt his sweat cold against his heated flesh, and he remained watching till he felt a hand on his shoulder—Cas’s—and saw that Michael was long dead and cold. Dean was crying before he even realized it. There was no fanfare, no redemption. Dean felt cheated and he sobbed into Michael’s chest, taking the knife and stabbing his corpse, again and again till Cas lifted him up by his waist.

“I’m supposed to feel better!” Dean sobbed after Cas brought him back into the forest, back to where they slept. “I’m supposed to feel different!”

Cas crouched in front of Dean, trapping his tear streaked face between his hands, warm with slick blood. He kissed Dean, hard, all teeth and force. He pushed Dean onto his back, licking his tears away without words and Dean sobbed, clawing at Cas’s back and shoulders.

“When I…when I killed him I thought that all of that would go away,” Dean groaned, breath hitching when Cas bit his neck, gnawing on his sweaty flesh. Cas growled and yanked Dean’s head back by his hair, Dean gasped and scrabbled against the dirt and dead leaves beneath them.

“Enough talk of that man,” Cas hissed, Dean could feel how hot his breath was, could feel his spit slicked lips against his ear.  “He did not die soon enough or fast enough in my opinion.”

Dean whimpered when Cas tugged harder, some of his hair ripped out into Cas’s clenched fingers. Cas immediately let go and rubbed over the spot, shushing him and cooing softly, crushing his body down to the ground and just…held him there.

“Just imagine this,” Cas started after a few minutes of tense silence, “Michael is dead, and he cannot hurt you anymore. One moment he was alive, the next _dead by your hand_. Killing him yourself, and not leaving it to time or another’s blade, has made you stronger than before, not weaker, Dean.”

“I feel weak,” Dean sighed, remaining limp beneath his mate as Cas reared up to glance at the shore.

“Normal enough, you just killed a man with your hands.”

Dean laughed and it was a husky, worn sound, he barely recognized the tone of his own voice. Cas stood and headed towards the water, and he knelt to drag one of the corpses with him. Dean watched him dump the bodies into the river. He drew his knees up to his chest and shivered. He was cold in the diffused, dim light of the forest but he hardly felt like moving. He was a rock, felt like a rock anyway; heavy, worn and sedentary. He watched Cas bathe in the river, watched the red wash from his body in heavy, maroon rivulets and he found himself wishing the blue inked into his skin would wash away as well. As dirty as he felt he couldn’t bring himself to join Cas in the river, he would wash later.

“We should keep moving,” Cas said when he returned from the river. He picked up his furs and used them to dry a little before shouldering them once more. “River Rock is far, and those bodies will drift for miles before anyone comes across them, let alone recognize them, yet we still have little time to reach safety.”

Dean nodded and accepted Cas’s offered hand, pulling himself up, and they left the copse of pine and the blood drenched sand.

 

“So Lucifer was using Cas all along?” Sam asked, frowning in disgust.

“Those are my suspicions, yes.” Gabriel nodded, keeping a wary eye on the river stretched in front of them. “He planned on Cas settling down in River Rock, becoming accustomed to its peoples, and maybe finding a woman there as well.”

“He doesn’t know my brother,” Sam snorted, entertained by the mere thought of Cas finding another besides Dean. It was impossible.

“Indeed,” Gabriel grinned, “and thanks to that Lucifer is now at a loss.”

“What was his plan in the first place?” Sam asked.

“Perhaps he meant to leave River Rock to take over the Empire. Undoubtedly he planned on Cas killing Michael, leaving the Empire without a ruler.”

“But Cas would be the successor…” Sam said.

“Not if Lucifer could convince him to leave, or, worse yet, he would kill him.”

“How? Cas is so strong now.” Sam gasped, remembering how Cas lifted the barrel of rice without breaking a sweat, a barrel that required the strength of two men.

“From what I could see in his tattoos, Lucifer designed Cas to be weaker than him. I can imagine the entire time since his re-creation that Cas has remained submissive to Lucifer, out of no action of his own, just a base feeling of weakness.”

“This is insane,” Sam scoffed.

“So even if Cas wanted to kill Lucifer, if he ever discovered his plans, he wouldn’t be able to. The Other inside of him would hold him back out of self-preservation.” Gabriel continued, ignoring Sam’s incredulity.

“Everything that Cas has done, everything he has become, was all part of Lucifer’s twisted ambitions for power?” Sam whispered. He wasn’t sure how he felt about that. He was upset for Cas, first and foremost. He had cut off his wings! His precious wings that Sam _knew_ he prided himself for. Every time Dean would clean them Cas would practically radiate pleasure, it was infectious, and now they were gone. He was alien now, strange and horrifying and it was all Lucifer’s fault. Sam knew Cas didn’t want power, and if he killed Michael he wouldn’t do anything about it. He would run.

“So where is Lucifer now?” Sam asked, suddenly realizing how vulnerable they were out in the open as they were. If Lucifer was loose, and feeling particularly scorned, he would have no difficulties with killing them.

“Oh, he’s around,” Gabriel replied, surreptitiously glancing around the canyon walls, “but he won’t hurt us. That one’s harmless now. The Others of River Rock will keep him tethered. There must always be a host in the village.”

“You know an awful lot about this,” Sam said, a question in his voice. Gabriel smirked and winked.

“A magician never reveals his secrets.”

Sam rolled his eyes and relaxed against the side of the boat, checking on Girl where she lay curled against his side. She still hadn’t woken up yet, and it had been hours.

“Don’t worry about that,” Gabriel said. “Once we find Cas and Dean she’ll wake up.”

“Find them? How can you be so sure that they’ve already left the Basilica?”

“Again, Sam, I never reveal my secrets.”

“Fine, where are they then?”

“They’re pretty close, actually, a few hours away? They’re on foot though, so we’ll reach them first if we don’t run into any…problems.”

Sam swallowed and left it at that.

After the sun went down and the moon painted the rock walls white they turned off the engine and allowed the boat to drift. It was slower going, but it would conserve energy. The river wouldn’t steer them wrong, Gabriel had said, and Sam hadn’t the energy to argue with him again. He wasn’t aware they were being watched till the morning hours, before the sun arose completely and the sky was a patchy gray color. It was just light enough for Sam to make out a shape above the canyon walls, following them at a cautious distance. He looked around for Gabriel, just noticing that they had come to a stop as well.

“I’m here, Sam.” Gabriel whispered, placing a hand on his shoulder. Girl was snoring softly and twitching in her sleep.

“It’s Lucifer, isn’t it?” Sam asked. Gabriel nodded. He moved to the back of the boat, switching on the motor to the lowest setting and Sam flinched at how loud the machine was in the silence of the tentative dawn.

“We just need to keep our heads down and keep going,” Gabriel whispered. “We’re close to them, they can help us, we just need to last till we can get to them.”

Sam nodded and unconsciously put himself between Girl and the canyon wall. If anything happened to Girl, Cas would kill him, kin or not.

 

Cas and Dean had been walking for what seemed like an age. He knew the amount of walking they did would have taken much longer, but the very ground seemed to shift under his feet, and miles flew by in minutes. Cas’s tattoos blazed neon in the sun, brighter the closer they came to River Rock. The river narrowed, the sun burned high in the sky, and he jumped into the river just for the sheer relief of water against his burnt flesh. Cas smiled indulgently at him as he ducked under, wetting his whole head, finally washing away the smears of the soldiers’ blood left on his face. He staggered out of the water and grinned Cas’s way, flicking water at him and the man hissed in annoyance, waiting till Dean was nearly out of the water before shoving him back in with a cackle. Dean screamed and gurgled when he swallowed water and surfaced with a kick.

“Cas, you fucking…” Dean growled, grinning like an idiot, but he stopped short when Cas was staring down river, eyes wide and lips a tight line.

“Dean,” he murmured, voice low but every bit as menacing as a roar. Dean scampered out of the water, tugging on his drooping slave tunic. He looked with Cas down the shore and heard the humming before he actually saw the boat. He took a jerky step forward but Cas held him back, planting a firm hand against his chest. He shook his head and planted one foot on the shore, the other in the water and _pushed_. Dean couldn’t explain it. It was beautiful and horrifying and Dean recoiled at the _wrongness_ of it. The water bulged around Cas’s ankle, then up to his knee and up the side of his body. Dean held his breath when an Empire powerboat careened by, he heard a shout of his name by a familiar voice, and then the water erupted from Cas’s outstretched hand, boiling, and Dean could feel the heat roil against his face. He was too close and yet he couldn’t bring himself to back away.

The water struck the sides of the canyon, steaming and fogging the entire stretch of the river, and Dean thought he saw something fall from the top of the canyon.

“ _Get back_.” Dean heard Cas say, but it was as if he were shouting from a great distance, and it wasn’t his voice at all. His muscles loosened, and he staggered away, falling to the ground. Someone yelled his name—not Cas—and he moved his head, sluggish. He barely made out the fuzzy outline of someone’s face and then large hands grasped his upper arms, pulling him away from Cas. He cried out and tried to break free, tried to make his way back to Cas.

“He’s too close,” Dean heard someone shout near his ear, “Dean’s being influenced by the Other’s power, he’ll snap out of it when we get him away.”

“Oh god…oh god Dean, please come back to me!”

Dean stirred, fighting the nausea and the overwhelming numbness in his head to look behind him, to see.

“Sammy…?”

“That’s right, oh my god, I’m here Dean, I’m here.” Sam, his brother, sobbed against his neck.

“Sammy,” Dean whimpered, grabbing at his brother’s hands, catching air half the time but Sam laughed breathily and took his hands himself.

“It’s good to see you again.” Sam whispered in his ear and Dean cried, he cried and finally managed to turn around to bury his face in Sam’s neck, holding on and he never wanted to let go. He heard sounds behind him that sounded suspiciously like screams and the shrieking of animals. Dean didn’t want to hear it; he didn’t want to know what was happening behind him, what Cas was doing to…whatever it was back there.

Sam pulled him to his feet and held him around his chest. Dean was boneless and so scared that it was all a dream. That everything that had happened in the past few days was one of the drugged, feverish nightmares he would suffer through back in the Empire, held tight against Michael’s chest. It was infuriating, and he felt powerless when he couldn’t even support himself as Sam dragged him away, towards the idling power boat. Sam lifted him, like he weighed nothing—though he was sure he gained weight during his captivity—and set him down in the safety of the boat. He glanced to his side when Sam pulled a scratchy blanket around his shoulders and saw a child sized lump in the corner. He nearly sobbed when he realized it was Girl, and he struggled to pull himself across to her. Sam noticed, and helped him cross the boat. Dean sighed and wrapped himself around his daughter, his real daughter, his Girl. He closed his eyes and wound his fingers through her matted hair, dark as Lisa’s. He huffed a laugh and wondered how Cas ever allowed it to grow so long.

He remembered Cas had said she was like him. He grinned when he imagined it. He imagined her fire, of course. She would take after her mother, perhaps. Her tongue would be sharp. He felt her wiry little muscles, bunched in a dream, and he imagined her in the wilderness with them, more than capable of taking care of herself. He saw that she had the remains of a wolf skin cape wrapped around her waist; a memento from colder days. He felt the sharp edges of a blade poke against his thigh. It wasn’t sharp enough to cut, but he imagined her in the forest hunting game with her father, her _real_ father. She smelled like wood smoke and salt, but soon she would smell like snow, mountain air, and the heavy scent of animal blood that never seemed to wash away.

They would be home soon, Dean thought with a smile. The nightmare was over.

 

After Cas felt that Dean was safe, he didn’t hold anything back. He shot jet after jet of boiling water at Lucifer, relishing in his surprised shouts of pain.

The Other inside of him had informed him of Lucifer’s plan merely days ago, but it was long enough to prepare, in the scant hours in which Dean slept he practiced in the river water, listening to the Other’s instructions.

_Lucifer is a being of fire_ , it had whispered to him, _and sadly he has used it against us time and time again to keep us pliant, but no more._

Its voice echoed in his head, full of dark promises.

_We will use his element against him_ , it said, _fight fire with fire_.

The boiling water was Cas’s idea, seeing as whenever he tried to touch fire, like Lucifer could, he recoiled from it before he was even inches away. The Other had hissed and proclaimed it a horrid idea, scratching at the walls of Cas’s head and Cas had screamed for it to shut up. It had quieted after Cas warmed the water to a pleasant temperature. He thought about it for about a second before he heated up the temperature to nearly intolerable levels, heat that would have killed a lesser man, and the Other had uncurled inside his head with a pleased purr.

_This idea, I like it_. It said, taking control of his body for mere seconds to roll about in the roiling water. Cas suppressed a chuckle and easily took back his body. When the Other first joined with him he was afraid it would take complete control, erasing his existence all together, but that wasn’t the case at all. It was more like a feline with a temper that would rather spend hours in the water than on land.

It was a soothing presence rather than invasive. Lucifer had built it up to be some sort of savage entity of nature that would burn away his brain to use his body as a tool for destruction.

Cas approached Lucifer’s body, scowling down at him. His face and upper arms were reddened and irritated from the boiling water. He stirred only slightly when Cas kicked his side out of spite.

“Thought he could kill me?” Cas snarled.

_No one can kill us, sweet Castiel_ , the Other purred. _Especially not this vermin_.

Cas hummed and kneeled down, hefting Lucifer up and over his shoulder like a sack of grain. For all his posturing, it seemed Lucifer was just weak, perhaps weak from the very beginning. Once Cas came along in his life he saw an opportunity, and he seized it. But it was Lucifer’s own fault that he underestimated Cas’s will power. Fool.

He walked to the boat on the shore, glancing once at Gabriel before he leaned over Dean, jostling him awake.

“Keep the blanket on, Dean, I have to use your tunic for restraints.”

Dean nodded blearily, fumbling beneath the blanket to untie his clothing. He was glad to be rid of it, even though he would be naked beneath the blanket. Sam started to protest and Cas shot him a look.

“I won’t kill him,” Cas said as he wound Dean’s former clothing around Lucifer’s arms, using the remainder to tie his legs as well. “I won’t become him.”

_Good, beautiful Castiel_ …the Other crooned. _Now let us be rid of him_.

“Is it over? Can it really be over?” Sam wondered aloud, coming to stand next to him.

“There is still so much to be done,” Gabriel sighed. “There is the matter of your succession, of Michael’s death.”

“There is another in the Basilica, Gabriel. His name is Uriel, his heart is true. Make it so that he assumes the throne in my stead.” Cas answered.

“Are you sure?” Sam stepped forward, touching his shoulder.

“I want no part in that place ever again, neither does Dean.” Cas murmured, looking over at his mate who seemed to be fighting slumber, liquid green eyes lidded but ever watchful on Lucifer’s bound form. “I won’t ever make him go back, and I will never leave him again. No, we’re going home.”

“Well then, if you are sure, I know the man,” Gabriel nodded, eyes solemn, “he will rule well, and make sure that his successor is as just and good as he is.”

“Good.” Cas replied, glancing at Lucifer’s bound, unconscious body in the boat.

“Papa?” Girl blinked awake, uncurling from Dean’s side. She screamed and bucked away, kicking Dean in the stomach. “You’re not my papa!”

“Girl, calm down, I am here.” Cas shouted, coming over to grab her arm.

“But who is that papa?! Why is Lucifer all tied up? Where are we?” She shouted. Cas didn’t even have the energy to assuage her fears. He laughed instead and kneeled down next to Dean.

“Girl, this is Dean.”

She stopped struggling and stared, dumbstruck.

“Dean? You mean… _the_ Dean? The Dean from your star walks? The Dean whose name I can’t say all the time?” She asked, blinking rapidly in excitement as she turned to stare at him. Dean pulled the blanket tighter around his shoulders, but smiled all the same.

“Wow, you’re pretty! You’re just like I imagined! Papa used to talk in his sleep about you, about your eyes that look like gems and the brown spots on your cheeks. I have those spots too, see?” She clambered up onto Dean’s lap and thrust her face close to his, pointing to the smattering of freckles over her little button of a nose.

“Well I think you’re prettier,” Dean said, poking her nose with a grin. She giggled and sat more heavily onto his lap, content for the moment. He sighed and rested his forehead against hers. Cas couldn’t stop smiling at the sight. Girl had accepted him, and while she didn’t yet know how close they actually were, it was enough for him.

Cas reached for Girl, who took his hand and stepped onto the shore with Dean close behind, and he kicked the boat back into the river.

“It will return to River Rock,” Cas said in explanation with a smirk. “He won’t be able to leave, the Other in him will make sure of it.”

Gabriel laughed softly and watched with them as the boat disappeared around the river bend.

“Where will you go after you set the Empire straight?” Sam asked Gabriel, and Cas could see the reluctance in his face, in his closeness to Gabriel.

“Wherever he goes, you should go.” Dean answered instead. Sam and Gabriel both turned to look at the other. “He could learn so much from you. Sam is a scholar, not a fighter.”

“And as much as you deny it, Gabriel, I know you have grown fond of him.” Cas added. Sam hunched his shoulders and Cas watched, fascinated, as his cheeks reddened ever so slightly. Gabriel laughed and he slapped an arm around Sam’s shoulders, though Sam had to stoop for him to do so.

“I’d love to take him with me.” Gabriel finally agreed, wiping tears from his eyes from laughing so hard. “If that’s okay with you, Sam.”

Sam laughed, but he stroked a thumb over Dean’s cheekbone, lips trembling.

“I just got you back,” he said, pulling his brother into a crushing hug.

“But you know where we’ll be, where we’re going.” Dean said, pulling his arms free of the blanket to hold Sam as well, uncaring if the blanket slid down or not.

“You’re going back to the lake house? But they burned it down with…with our mother still inside. I’m sorry Dean, she didn’t make it.” Sam sniffed, pulling away before he wouldn’t be able to let go again. Dean frowned for a moment, turning to look glance at Cas, who merely nodded.

“Then we’ll rebuild it.” Dean nodded, clenching his fists at his sides. Cas knew that Dean had loved their mother, no matter how much she had soured towards him in her later years. News of her death had shaken him.

“You know I’ve always been good with my hands,” Dean continued with a wiggle of his eyebrows and a decent attempt of a smile on his lips. Sam laughed and punched him in the shoulder.

It was so easy he almost couldn’t believe it, didn’t want to at first, but it was actually over. The whole nightmare that started all those years ago in the snow was _finished_. 


	3. Sanctification

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Epilogue of this year's DCBB~

**Epilogue: Sanctification**

_Homeward bound._

-o-

The white winter embraced them, pinching their cheeks till they bloomed red and their eyes watered. Cas shivered and hummed in pleasure. Snow was falling from the heather gray sky, thick, but soundless. He had grown accustomed to rain, and had forgotten the wonders and magic of fresh snowfall.

They would do it right this time. They would travel far away from any village and they procured supplies on their own to rebuild their old home. If they died on their own, they would die, but they would die together.

True peace had come to their hearts. They were one, they were cold, but they were one. Their breath fogged in their faces, freezing in the frigid air. Before, Cas had no need for excessive coverage, nor did he fear the cold. Now though he shivered when once he would have crowed in delight, naked under the moon. They were bundled tight in layers upon layers of animal skins and furs, and he nearly laughed at how foreign he felt in his own homeland.

Dean must have shared his amusement, for when he turned to look on his mate’s face Dean was grinning from ear to ear. His eyes wrinkled around the edges, but they were good lines, lines of laughter and love. He reached out with a wrapped and gloved hand—not a hint of blue nor rosy pink of flesh was visible—and he brushed stray flakes of snow from Dean’s greying hair. Dean turned to look at him, fondness shining in his watery green eyes.

“We’re home, Cas.”

Cas nodded and stretched his back, groaning in muted approval when he both heard and felt his spine pop. He flexed his shoulders and winced. His bones were old, temperamental, yet new life grew yet.

The Other had left him long ago—he’d like to think they parted mutual friends—and it took the rot and fire it had caused with it. New flesh had grown where it had been burned away. New bones had sprouted, had been cloaked in muscle and sinew and fat and flesh. Blood pumped in new veins, hearty and healthy. What the Other, what Lucifer, had sought to destroy was not so easily quenched. Age old blood from an age old line did not give up after the first defeat. Cas was special, he knew that very well by now. And perhaps the stunted, weak beginnings of wings were the Other’s gift to him, an apology as it were. Cas readily accepted them, loved them, embraced them as his own once more.

Burning was Lucifer’s way, had been Michael’s way, and had almost been Cas’s way. He did not want that for himself, and Dean didn’t either. If he hadn’t had Dean with him on that day that now seemed so long ago, he would have killed Lucifer, would have finished the pact, and would have been irrevocably poisoned against his own flesh.

Now, though, he was finally safe and sound, back in the cold with his mate and daughter who took to the snow with rabid curiosity. She had nearly fallen ill after a day spent frolicking in it, screaming with laughter as she threw it about and made shapes with it. Cas used the very last vestiges of his power to bring her back to health, and then that was it, his power was gone and he was but a man once more. As he watched his mate play with their child beneath the chilled winter sun, as they grew closer day by day, he found he didn’t care at all.

They had built their cabin by the same lake, practically on top of the blackened remains of their old home. They felled the trees themselves and harvested crops during the short summers and hoarded during the even longer winters. They created their stores again, stole what they absolutely needed but made sure to return once they finished. No one in the village ventured out that far, same as always, and no one knew of their return. It was just like normal, but better.

Sam made sure to visit twice every year. He was as tan as Gabriel now, more polished and sophisticated than Dean would have liked, but he loved him all the same. Sam was still Sam, and Cas would never forget it.

Girl had always grown quickly, as wilderness had demanded from her, but now it seemed she took her time. She let her roots grow deep in their home; she stopped wandering as she did the first few months, leaving for days on end to return with a brace of rabbits and a bloody grin. She started brushing her hair, started asking about the outside world, started actually bathing in the house—which was a shock to both Cas _and_ Dean—and had asked one day many years after they had settled what it meant when she bled from between her legs.

Cas didn’t want to touch that conversation with a ten foot pole and left it to Dean instead.

She never asked why there weren’t any women in the house though. She never wondered or complained when she caught them kissing in a corner, slow and reverent.

“Daddy loves Papa, I get it okay?” She had said, exasperated when Dean had confronted her afterwards, treating her like a delicate little flower. Cas thought she was more insulted by that than what she had caught them doing. Girl was no flower, and Cas stifled a laugh when she threw her arms up and sharply proclaimed that Papa could fuck Daddy all he wanted just so long as they kept it down at night, they were waking her up.

“I bet you thought that was pretty funny, didn’t you?” Dean scowled later that evening as they lay entwined under the sheets. Neither of them bothered constructing a bed frame, they had scavenged pillows and blankets and scraps of textiles from the village and had formed a giant nest in their bedroom. It was all they were used to, Girl included, and actually sleeping in a bed hadn’t even crossed their minds.

“Oh yes I think so, _Daddy_ ,” Cas crooned, bumping their noses together as he laughed.

“Why does she still call us that? How old is she now, twelve?”

“Fifteen,” Cas responded, moving on to lazily suck at Dean’s neck. Dean faltered for a moment, breath hitching, before he rolled his hips into Cas’s, rumbling low in approval.

“Still she…she has to grow up _sometime_ , I mean…how long can we possibly keep her cooped up here alone?”

“She goes to the town every Saturday.” Cas murmured against Dean’s collarbone, licking at it and tasting the faint trace of salt, of his sweat.

“What?!” Dean gasped, struggling to sit up.

“Relax, Dean, I follow her. She stays out of trouble, mostly.”

“Hunh,” Dean grunted when Cas suddenly flipped him onto his stomach, licking over the knob of his spine, trailing south.

“You’ll let me know when there’s a boy, won’t you? I’ll— _oh_ —I’ll have words with him before he even thinks of touching my daughter.”

Cas sat back from where he was toying with Dean’s rim, still stretched from their coupling earlier.

“Can we please not talk about Girl while I do this to you?” Cas chided, running his hands over Dean’s smooth skin, placing his thumb where his mouth had been.

Dean moaned and bucked lazily, nodding and humming in pleasure when Cas increased the pressure, circling but not entering.

When he took Dean again that night—only once more, they weren’t as young as they wanted to be—he was at peace. He was in love, he was safe, Girl was growing into a Woman, and no one bothered them. He remembered how it was before the Empire, when he was an animal and Dean was his mate and he was selfish and cruel. He had changed, but his desires had not.

He rolled onto his stomach and stretched his now fully regrown wings, extending them into the air, holding the muscles till they trembled then he brought them back in. They were stronger now, but built slighter than his old ones. Brought back through strange magicks that he would much rather forget. They were easier to hide and perhaps one day he could fold them against his back and he and Dean could walk into the village together, as two people, not as the savages they had been called for most of their lives. No one in the village would remember them, and they had changed so much, especially Cas. He had no fear of humans now, especially not after killing Michael, ending his dark hold over Dean.

Because that was all he cared about, perhaps all he would _ever_ care about.

Let kings battle kings, let thrones clash and fall, Cas only wanted his family and the bite of a middle land winter with the promise of the hunt in a crisp white morn.

-END-


End file.
